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NORTH  CAROLINA 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 
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THE    COMPLETE    W  O  R  K  S    O F 

GEORGE  ELIOT 

WITH  LIFE  BY  J.  W.  CROSS 


With  Photoghaa  lkk  Tllus tha  tions  i  iiOM 
Xew  Drawings 

BY 

Gertkude  De.main  ITammond,  R.I. 

AND 

Frederick  I^.  Stoddard 


THE   BOOK  SHOP 


J  man  in  threadbare  clothing  ivas  seated  on  a  stool 
'  against  some  bookshelves 

(Page  157) 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS  OF 

GEORGE  ELIOT 


VOLUME  XIII 


DANIEL  DERONDA 

VOLUME  TWO 


BOSTON 

CHABLES  E.  LAUBIAT  COMPANY 
1908 


Contents 


BOOK  THREE  {Continued) 

Page 

Maidens  Choosing   1 

BOOK  FOUR 

Gwendolen  gets  her  Choice  42 

BOOK  FIVE 

Mordecai  182 

BOOK  SIX 

Revelations  336 


Daniel  Deronda 


{Continued) 
MAIDENS  CHOOSING 

CHAPTER  VII 

"How  trace  the  why  and  wherefore  in  a  mind  reduced  to  the  barren- 
ness of  a  fastidious  egoism,  in  which  all  direct  desires  are  dulled,  and 
have  dwindled  from  motives  into  a  vacillating  expectation  of  motives; 
a  mind  made  up  of  moods,  where  a  fitful  impulse  springs  here  and  there 
conspicuously  rank  amid  the  general  weediness  ?  'T  is  a  condition  apt 
to  befall  a  Ufe  too  much  at  large,  uiunoulded  by  the  pressure  of  obli- 
gation. Nam  deteriores  omnes  sumus  licentice,  saith  Terence;  or,  as 
a  more  familiar  tongue  might  deUver  it,  'As  you  like '  w  a  bad  finger-post" 

POTENTATES  make  known  their  inten- 
tions and  affect  the  funds  at  a  small 
expense  of  words.  So,  when  Grand- 
court,  after  learning  that  Gwendolen  had  left 
Leubronn,  incidentally  pronounced  that  resort 
of  fashion  a  beastly  hole  worse  than  Baden,  the 
remark  was  conclusive  to  Mr.  Lush  that  his 
patron  intended  straightway  to  return  to  Dip- 
low.  The  execution  was  sure  to  be  slower  than 
the  intention,  and  in  fact  Grandcourt  did  loiter 
through  the  next  day  without  giving  any  dis- 
tinct orders  about  departure,  —  perhaps  because 
he  discerned  that  Lush  was  expecting  them: 
he  lingered  over  his  toilet,  and  certainly  came 
voft.  xni— 1 


>  610325 


2  DANIEL  DERONDA 


down  with  a  faded  aspect  of  perfect  distinction 
which  made  fresh  complexions,  and  hands  with 
the  blood  in  them,  seem  signs  of  raw  vulgarity; 
he  lingered  on  the  terrace,  in  the  gambling- 
rooms,  in  the  reading-room,  occupying  himself 
in  being  indifferent  to  everybody  and  everything 
around  him.  When  he  met  Lady  Mallinger, 
however,  he  took  some  trouble,  —  raised  his  hat, 
paused,  and  proved  that  he  listened  to  her  rec- 
ommendation of  the  waters  by  replying,  "  Yes; 
I  heard  somebody  say  how  providential  it  was 
that  there  always  happened  to  be  springs  at 
gambling-places . ' ' 

"  Oh,  that  was  a  joke,"  said  innocent  Lady 
Mallinger,  misled  by  Grandcourt's  languid  seri- 
ousness, "  in  imitation  of  the  old  one  about  the 
towns  and  the  rivers,  you  know." 

"  Ah,  perhaps,"  said  Grandcourt,  without 
change  of  expression.  Lady  Mallinger  thought 
this  worth  telling  to  Sir  Hugo,  who  said,  "  Oh, 
my  dear,  he  is  not  a  fool.  You  must  not  sup- 
pose that  he  can't  see  a  joke.  He  can  play  his 
cards  as  well  as  most  of  us." 

"  He  has  never  seemed  to  me  a  very  sensible 
man,"  said  Lady  Mallinger,  in  excuse  of  her- 
self. She  had  a  secret  objection  to  meeting 
Grandcourt,  who  was  little  else  to  her  than  a 
large  living  sign  of  what  she  felt  to  be  her 
failure  as  a  wife,  —  the  not  having  presented 
Sir  Hugo  with  a  son.  Her  constant  reflection 
was  that  her  husband  might  fairly  regret  his 
choice,  and  if  he  had  not  been  very  good  might 
have  treated  her  with  some  roughness  in  con- 
sequence, gentlemen  naturally  disliking  to  be 
disappointed. 


MAIDENS  CHOOSING  3 


Deronda,  too,  had  a  recognition  from  Grand- 
court,  for  which  he  was  not  grateful,  though  he 
took  care  to  return  it  with  perfect  civility.  No 
reasoning  as  to  the  foundations  of  custom  could 
do  away  with  the  early-rooted  feeling  that  his 
birth  had  been  attended  with  injury  for  which 
his  father  was  to  blame ;  and  seeing  that  but  for 
this  injury  Grandcourt's  prospect  might  have 
been  his,  he  was  proudly  resolute  not  to  behave 
in  any  way  that  might  be  interpreted  into  irri- 
tation on  that  score.  He  saw  a  very  easy 
descent  into  mean  unreasoning  rancour  and  tri- 
umph in  others'  frustration;  and  being  deter- 
mined not  to  go  down  that  ugly  pit,  he  turned 
his  back  on  it,  clinging  to  the  kindlier  affections 
within  him  as  a  possession.  Pride  certainly 
helped  him  well,  —  the  pride  of  not  recognizing 
a  disadvantage  for  one's  self  which  vulgar 
minds  are  disposed  to  exaggerate,  such  as  the 
shabby  equipage  of  poverty :  he  would  not  have 
a  man  like  Grandcourt  suppose  himself  envied 
by  him.  But  there  is  no  guarding  against  in- 
terpretation. Grandcourt  did  believe  that  De- 
ronda, poor  devil,  who  he  had  no  doubt  was  his 
cousin  by  the  father's  side,  inwardly  winced 
under  their  mutual  position;  wherefore  the 
presence  of  that  less  lucky  person  was  more 
agreeable  to  him  than  it  would  otherwise  have 
been.  An  imaginary  envy,  the  idea  that  others 
feel  their  comparative  deficiency,  is  the  ordi- 
nary cortege  of  egoism;  and  his  pet  dogs  were 
not  the  only  beings  that  Grandcourt  liked  to 
feel  his  power  over  in  making  them  jealous. 
Hence  he  was  civil  enough  to  exchange  several 
words  with  Deronda  on  the  terrace  about  the 


4  DANIEL  DERONDA 


hunting  round  Diplow,  and  ^ven  said,  "  You 
had  better  come  over  for  a  run  or  two  when  the 
season  begins." 

Lush,  not  displeased  with  delay,  amused  him- 
self very  well,  partly  in  gossiping  with  Sir 
Hugo  and  in  answering  his  questions  about 
Grandcourt's  affairs  so  far  as  they  might  affect 
his  willingness  to  part  with  his  interest  in 
Diplow.  Also  about  Grandcourt's  personal  en- 
tanglements, the  baronet  knew  enough  already 
for  Lush  to  feel  released  from  silence  on  a 
sunny  autumn  day,  when  there  was  nothing 
more  agreeable  to  do  in  lounging  promenades 
than  to  speak  freely  of  a  tyrannous  patron 
behind  his  back.  Sir  Hugo  willingly  inclined 
his  ear  to  a  little  good-humoured  scandal,  which 
he  was  fond  of  calling  traits  de  moeurs;  but 
he  was  strict  in  keeping  such  communications 
from  hearers  who  might  take  them  too  seri- 
ously. Whatever  knowledge  he  had  of  his 
nephew's  secrets,  he  had  never  spoken  of  it  to 
Deronda,  who  considered  Grandcourt  a  pale- 
blooded  mortal,  but  was  far  from  wishing  to 
hear  how  the  red  corpuscles  had  been  washed 
out  of  him.  It  was  Lush's  policy  and  inclina- 
tion to  gratify  everybody  when  he  had  no  reason 
to  the  contrary ;  and  the  baronet  always  treated 
him  well,  as  one  of  those  easy-handled  person- 
ages who,  frequenting  the  society  of  gentlemen, 
without  being  exactly  gentlemen  themselves,  can 
-  be  the  more  serviceable,  like  the  second-best  arti- 
cles of  our  wardrobe,  which  we  use  with  a  com- 
fortable freedom  from  anxiety. 

"  Well,  you  will  let  me  know  the  turn  of 
events,"  said  Sir  Hugo,  "  if  this  marriage  seems 


MAIDENS  CHOOSING  5 


likely  to  come  off  after  all,  or  if  anything  else 
happens  to  make  the  want  of  money  more 
pressing.  My  plan  would  be  much  better  for 
him  than  burthening  Ryelands." 

"  That 's  true,"  said  Lush,  "  only  it  must  not 
be  urged  on  him,  —  just  placed  in  his  way  that 
the  scent  may  tickle  him.  Grandcourt  is  not  a 
man  to  be  always  led  by  what  makes  for  his 
own  interest;  especially  if  you  let  him  see  that 
it  makes  for  your  interest  too.  I 'm  attached 
to  him,  of  course.  I 've  given  up  everything 
else  for  the  sake  of  keeping  by  him,  and  it  has 
lasted  a  good  fifteen  years  now.  He  would  not 
easily  get  any  one  else  to  fill  my  place.  He 's 
a  peculiar  character,  is  Henleigh  Grandcourt, 
and  it  has  been  growing  on  him  of  late  years. 
However,  I 'm  of  a  constant  disposition,  and 
I  Ve  been  a  sort  of  guardian  to  him  since  he 
was  twenty:  an  uncommonly  fascinating  fellow 
he  was  then,  to  be  sure  —  and  could  be  now,  if 
he  liked.  I 'm  attached  to  him;  and  it  would 
be  a  good  deal  worse  for  him  if  he  missed  me 
at  his  elbow." 

Sir  Hugo  did  not  think  it  needful  to  express 
his  sympathy  or  even  assent,  and  perhaps  Lush 
himself  did  not  expect  this  sketch  of  his  mo- 
tives to  be  taken  as  exact.  But  how  can  a  man 
avoid  himself  as  a  subject  in  conversation?  And 
he  must  make  some  sort  of  decent  toilet  in 
words,  as  in  cloth  and  linen.  Lush's  listener 
was  not  severe:  a  member  of  Parliament  could 
allow  for  the  necessities  of  verbal  toilet;  and 
the  dialogue  went  on  without  any  change  of 
mutual  estimate. 

However,  Lush's  easy  prospect  of  indefinite 


6  DANIEL  DERONDA 


procrastination  was  cut  off  the  next  morniiig  by 
Grandcourt's  saluting  him  with  the  question,  — 

"  Are  you  making  all  the  arrangements  for 
our  starting  by  the  Paris  train?  " 

"  I  did  n't  know  you  meant  to  start,"  said 
Lush,  not  exactly  taken  by  surprise. 

"  You  might  have  known,"  said  Grandcourt, 
looking  at  the  burnt  length  of  his  cigar,  and 
speaking  in  that  lowered  tone  which  was  usual 
with  him  when  he  meant  to  express  disgust  and 
be  peremptory.  "  Just  see  to  everything,  will 
you?  and  mind  no  brute  gets  into  the  same 
carriage  with  us.  And  leave  my  P.  P.  C.  at 
the  Mallingers'." 

In  consequence  they  were  at  Paris  the  next 
day;  but  here  Lush  was  gratified  by  the  pro- 
posal or  command  that  he  should  go  straight 
on  to  Diplow  and  see  that  everything  was  right, 
while  Grandcourt  and  the  valet  remained  be- 
hind; and  it  was  not  until  several  days  later 
that  Lush  received  the  telegram  ordering  the 
carriage  to  the  Wanchester  station. 

He  had  used  the  interim  actively,  not  only  in 
carrying  out  Grandcourt's  orders  about  the  stud 
and  household,  but  in  learning  all  he  could  of 
Gwendolen,  and  how  things  were  going  on  at 
Offendene.  What  was  the  probable  effect  that 
the  news  of  the  family  misfortunes  would  have 
on  Grandcourt's  fitful  obstinacy  he  felt  to  be 
quite  incalculable.  So  far  as  the  girl's  poverty 
might  be  an  argument  that  she  would  accept 
an  offer  from  him  now  in  spite  of  any  previous 
coyness,  it  might  remove  that  bitter  objection 
to  risk  a  repulse  which  Lush  divined  to  be  one 
of  Grandcourt's  deterring  motives ;  on  the  other 


MAIDENS  CHOOSING  7 


hand,  the  certainty  of  acceptance  was  just  "  the 
sort  of  thing  "  to  make  him  lapse  hither  and 
thither  with  no  more  apparent  will  than  a  moth. 
Lush  had  had  his  patron  under  close  observa- 
tion for  many  years,  and  knew  him  perhaps 
better  than  he  knew  any  other  subject;  but  to 
know  Grandcourt  was  to  doubt  what  he  would 
do  in  any  particular  case.  It  might  happen 
that  he  would  behave  with  an  apparent  mag- 
nanimity, like  the  hero  of  a  modern  French 
drama,  whose  sudden  start  into  moral  splendour 
after  much  lying  and  meanness  leaves  you  little 
confidence  as  to  any  part  of  his  career  that  may 
follow  the  fall  of  the  curtain.  Indeed,  what 
attitude  would  have  been  more  honourable  for 
a  final  scene  than  that  of  declining  to  seek  an 
heiress  for  her  money,  and  determining  to  marry 
the  attractive  girl  who  had  none?  But  I^ush 
had  some  general  certainties  about  Grandcourt, 
and  one  was,  that  of  all  inward  movements  those 
of  generosity  were  the  least  likely  to  occur  in 
him.  Of  what  use,  however,  is  a  general  cer- 
tainty that  an  insect  will  not  walk  with  his  head 
hindmost,  when  what  you  need  to  know  is  the 
play  of  inward  stimulus  that  sends  him  hither  and 
thither  in  a  network  of  possible  paths?  Thus 
Lush  was  much  at  fault  as  to  the  probable  issue 
between  Grandcourt  and  Gwendolen,  when  what 
he  desired  was  a  perfect  confidence  that  they 
would  never  be  married.  He  would  have  con- 
sented willingly  that  Grandcourt  should  marry 
an  heiress,  or  that  he  should  marry  Mrs.  Glasher: 
in  the  one  match  there  would  have  been  the  imme- 
diate abundance  that  prospective  heirship  could 
not  supply,  in  the  other  there  would  have  been 


8 


DAXIEL  DERONDA 


the  security  of  the  wife's  gratitude,  for  Lush 
had  always  been  ]Mrs.  dasher's  friend ;  and  that 
the  future  ]\lrs.  Grandcourt  should  not  be  so- 
cially received  could  not  affect  his  private  com- 
fort. He  would  not  have  minded,  either,  that 
there  should  be  no  marriage  in  question  at  all; 
but  he  felt  himself  justified  in  doing  his  utmost 
to  hinder  a  marriage  with  a  girl  who  was  hkely  to 
bring  nothing  but  trouble  to  her  husband,  —  not 
to  speak  of  annoyance  if  not  ultimate  injury  to 
her  husband's  old  companion,  whose  future  Mr. 
Lush  earnestly  wished  to  make  as  easy  as  possi- 
ble, considering  that  he  had  well  deserved  such 
compensation  for  leading  a  dog's  hfe,  though 
that  of  a  dog  who  enjoyed  many  tastes  undis- 
turbed, and  who  profited  by  a  large  establish- 
ment. He  wished  for  himself  what  he  felt  to  be 
good,  and  was  not  conscious  of  wishing  harm  to 
any  one  else;  unless  perhaps  it  were  just  now  a 
little  harm  to  the  inconvenient  and  impertinent 
Gwendolen.  But  the  easiest-humoured  amateur 
of  luxury  and  music,  the  toad-eater  the  least 
liable  to  nausea,  must  be  expected  to  have  his 
susceptibilities.  And  ^Ir.  Lush  was  accustomed 
to  be  treated  by  the  world  in  general  as  an  apt, 
agreeable  fellow:  he  had  not  made  up  his  mind 
to  be  insulted  by  more  than  one  person. 

With  this  imperfect  preparation  of  a  war 
policy,  Lush  was  awaiting  Grandcourt's  arrival, 
doing  little  more  than  wondering  how  the  cam- 
paign would  begin.  The  first  day  Grandcourt 
was  much  occupied  with  the  stables,  and  amongst 
other  things  he  ordered  a  groom  to  put  a  side- 
saddle on  Criterion  and  let  him  review  the  horse's 
paces.    This  marked  indication  of  purpose  set 


MAIDENS  CHOOSING  9 


Lush  on  considering  over  again  whether  he 
should  incur  the  tickhsh  consequences  of  speak- 
ing first,  while  he  was  still  sure  that  no  compro- 
mising step  had  been  taken ;  and  he  rose  the  next 
morning  almost  resolved  that  if  Grandcourt 
seemed  in  as  good  a  humour  as  yesterday  and 
entered  at  all  into  talk,  he  would  let  drop  the  in- 
teresting facts  about  Gwendolen  and  her  family, 
just  to  see  how  they  would  work,  and  to  get 
some  guidance.  But  Grandcourt  did  not  enter 
into  talk,  and  in  answer  to  a  question  even  about 
his  own  convenience,  no  fish  could  have  main- 
tained a  more  unwinking  silence.  After  he  had 
read  his  letters  he  gave  various  orders  to  be  exe- 
cuted or  transmitted  by  Lush,  and  then  thrust 
his  shoulders  towards  that  useful  person,  who 
accordingly  rose  to  leave  the  room.  But  before 
he  was  out  of  the  door  Grandcourt  turned  his 
head  slightly,  and  gave  a  broken,  languid  "  Oh!  " 

"  What  is  it?  "  said  Lush,  who,  it  must  have 
been  observed,  did  not  take  his  dusty  puddings 
with  a  respectful  air. 

"  Shut  the  door,  will  you?  I  can't  speak  into 
the  corridor." 

Lush  closed  the  door,  came  forward,  and  chose 
to  sit  down. 

After  a  little  pause  Grandcourt  said,  "  Is  Miss 
Harleth  at  Offendene?  "  He  was  quite  certain 
that  Lush  had  made  it  his  business  to  inquire 
about  her,  and  he  had  some  pleasure  in  thinking 
that  Lush  did  not  want  him  to  inquire. 

"  Well,  I  hardly  know,"  said  Lush,  carelessly. 
"  The  family  's  utterly  done  up.  They  and  the 
Gascoignes  too  have  lost  all  their  money.  It 's 
owing  to  some  rascally  banking  business.  The 


10  DANIEL  DERONDA 


poor  mother  has  n't  a  sou,  it  seems.  She  and  the 
girls  have  to  huddle  themselves  into  a  little  cot- 
tage like  a  labourer's." 

"  Don't  lie  to  me,  if  you  please,"  said  Grand- 
court,  in  his  lowest  audible  tone.  "  It 's  not 
amusing,  and  it  answers  no  other  purpose." 

"  What  do  you  mean? "  said  Lush,  more 
nettled  than  was  common  with  him,  —  the  pros- 
pect before  him  being  more  than  commonly 
disturbing. 

"  Just  tell  me  the  truth,  will  you?  " 

"  It 's  no  invention  of  mine.  I  have  heard  the 
story  from  several,  —  Bazley,  Brackenshaw's 
man,  for  one.  He  is  getting  a  new  tenant  for 
Offendene." 

"  I  don't  mean  that.  Is  Miss  Harleth  there, 
or  is  she  not?  "  said  Grandcourt,  in  his  former 
tone. 

"  Upon  my  soul,  I  can't  tell,"  said  Lush, 
rather  sulkily.  "  She  may  have  left  yesterday. 
I  heard  she  had  taken  a  situation  as  governess; 
she  may  be  gone  to  it,  for  what  I  know.  But  if 
you  wanted  to  see  her,  no  doubt  the  mother 
would  send  for  her  back."  This  sneer  slipped 
off  his  tongue  without  strict  attention. 

"  Send  Hutchins  to  inquire  whether  she  will 
be  there  to-morrow." 

Lush  did  not  move.  Like  many  persons  who 
have  thought  over  beforehand  what  they  shall 
say  in  given  cases,  he  was  impelled  by  an  unex- 
pected irritation  to  say  some  of  those  prear- 
ranged things  before  the  cases  were  given. 
Grandcourt,  in  fact,  was  likely  to  get  into  a 
scrape  so  tremendous  that  it  was  impossible  to 
let  him  take  the  first  step  towards  it  without  re- 


MAIDENS  CHOOSING  11 


monstrance.  Lush  retained  enough  caution  to 
use  a  tone  of  rational  friendliness;  still  he  felt 
his  own  value  to  his  patron,  and  was  prepared 
to  be  daring. 

"  It  would  be  as  well  for  you  to  remember, 
Grandcourt,  that  you  are  coming  under  closer 
fire  now.  There  can  be  none  of  the  ordinar}^ 
flirting  done,  which  may  mean  everything  or 
nothing.  You  must  make  up  your  mind  whether 
you  wish  to-be  accepted;  and  more  than  that, 
how  you  would  like  being  refused.  Either  one 
or  the  other.  You  can't  be  philandering  after 
her  again  for  six  weeks." 

Grandcourt  said  nothing,  but  pressed  the 
newspaper  down  on  his  knees  and  began  to  light 
another  cigar.  Lush  took  this  as  a  sign  that  he 
was  willing  to  listen,  and  was  the  more  bent  on 
using  the  opportunity;  he  wanted  if  possible  to 
find  out  which  would  be  the  more  potent  cause 
of  hesitation,  —  probable  acceptance  or  prob- 
able refusal. 

"  Everything  has  a  more  serious  look  now 
than  it  had  before.  There  is  her  family  to  be 
provided  for.  You  could  not  let  your  wife's 
mother  live  in  beggary.  It  will  be  a  confound- 
edly hampering  affair.  Marriage  will  pin  you 
down  in  a  way  you  have  n't  been  used  to ;  and  in 
point  of  money  you  have  not  too  much  elbow- 
room.  And  after  all,  what  will  you  get  by  it? 
You  are  master  over  your  estates,  present  or 
future,  as  far  as  choosing  your  heir  goes ;  it 's  a 
pity  to  go  on  encumbering  them  for  a  mere 
whim,  which  you  may  repent  of  in  a  twelve- 
month. I  should  be  sorry  to  see  you  making  a 
mess  of  your  life  in  that  way.  If  there  were  any- 


12  DANIEL  DERONDA 


thing  solid  to  be  gained  by  the  marriage  that 
would  be  a  different  affair." 

Lush's  tone  had  gradually  become  more  and 
more  unctuous  in  its  friendliness  of  remon- 
strance, and  he  was  almost  in  danger  of  for- 
getting that  he  was  merely  gambling  in  argu- 
ment. When  he  left  off,  Grandcourt  took  his 
cigar  out  of  his  mouth,  and  looking  steadily  at 
the  moist  end  while  he  adjusted  the  leaf  with  his 
delicate  finger-tips,  said,  — 

"  I  knew  before  that  you  had  an  objection  to 
my  marrying  Miss  Harleth."  Here  he  made  a 
little  pause,  before  he  continued,  "  But  I  never 
considered  that  a  reason  against  it." 

"  I  never  supposed  you  did,"  answered  Lush, 
not  unctuously,  but  dryly.  "  It  was  not  that  I 
urged  as  a  reason.  I  should  have  thought  it 
might  have  been  a  reason  against  it,  after  all 
your  experience,  that  you  would  be  acting  like 
the  hero  of  a  ballad,  and  making  yourself  ab- 
surd, —  and  all  for  what?  You  know  you 
could  n't  make  up  your  mind  before.  It 's  im- 
possible you  can  care  much  about  her.  And  as 
for  the  tricks  she  is  likely  to  play,  you  may 
judge  of  that  from  what  you  heard  at  Leu- 
bronn.  However,  what  I  wisfied  to  point  out  to 
you  was,  that  there  can  be  no  shilly-shally  now." 

"  Perfectly,"  said  Grandcourt,  looking  round 
at  Lush  and  fixing  him  with  narrow  eyes ;  "  I 
don't  intend  that  there  should  be.  I  dare  say 
it 's  disagreeable  to  you.  But  if  you  suppose  I 
care  a  damn  for  that,  you  are  most  stupendously 
mistaken." 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Lush,  rising  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  and  feeling  some  latent  venom  still 


MAIDENS  CHOOSING  13 


within  him,  "  if  you  have  made  up  your  mind! 
—  only  there 's  another  aspect  of  the  affair.  I 
have  been  speaking  on  the  supposition  that  it  was 
absolutely  certain  she  would  accept  you,  and  that 
destitution  would  have  no  choice.  But  I  am  not 
so  sure  that  the  young  lady  is  to  be  counted  on. 
She  is  kittle  cattle  to  shoe,  I  think.  And  she  had 
her  reasons  for  running  away  before."  Lush 
had  moved  a  step  or  two  till  he  stood  nearly  in 
front  of  Grandcourt,  though  at  some  distance 
from  him.  He  did  not  feel  himself  much  re- 
strained by  consequences,  being  aware  that  the 
only  strong  hold  he  had  on  his  present  position 
was  his  serviceableness ;  and  even  after  a  quarrel, 
the  want  of  him  was  likely  sooner  or  later  to 
recur.  He  foresaw  that  Gwendolen  would  cause 
him  to  be  ousted  for  a  time,  and  his  temper  at 
this  moment  urged  him  to  risk  a  quarrel. 

"  She  had  her  reasons,"  he  repeated,  more 
significantly. 

"  I  had  come  to  that  conclusion  before,"  said 
Grandcourt,  with  contemptuous  irony. 

"  Yes,  but  I  hardly  think  you  know  what  her 
reasons  were." 

"  You  do,  apparently,"  said  Grandcourt,  not 
betraying  by  so  much  as  an  eyelash  that  he  cared 
for  the  reasons. 

"  Yes,  and  you  had  better  know  too,  that  you 
may  judge  of  the  influence  you  have  over  her  if 
she  swallows  her  reasons  and  accepts  you.  For 
my  own  part,  I  would  take  odds  against  it.  She 
saw  Lydia  in  Cardell  Chase,  and  heard  the  whole 
story." 

Grandcourt  made  no  immediate  answer,  and 
only  went  on  smoking.    He  was  so  long  before 


14  DANIEL  DERONDA 


he  spoke  that  Lusl^  moved  about  and  looked  out 
of  the  windows,  unwilling  to  go  away  without 
seeing  some  effect  of  his  daring  move.  He  had 
expected  that  Grandcourt  would  tax  him  with 
having  contrived  the  affair,  since  Mrs.  Glasher 
was  then  living  at  Gadsmere,  a  hundred  miles 
off,  and  he  was  prepared  to  admit  the  fact :  what 
he  cared  about  was  that  Grandcourt  should  be 
staggered  by  the  sense  that  his  intended  advan- 
ces must  be  made  to  a  girl  who  had  that  knowl- 
edge in  her  mind  and  had  been  scared  by  it.  At 
length  Grandcourt,  seeing  Lush  turn  towards 
him,  looked  at  him  again  and  said  contemptu- 
ously, "  What  follows?" 

Here  certainly  was  a  "  mate  "  in  answer  to 
Lush's  "check;"  and  though  his  exasperation 
with  Grandcourt  was  perhaps  stronger  than  it 
had  ever  been  before,  it  would  have  been  mere 
idiocy  to  act  as  if  any  further  move  could  be 
useful.  He  gave  a  slight  shrug  with  one 
shoulder,  and  was  going  to  walk  away,  when 
Grandcourt,  turning  on  his  seat  towards  the 
table,  said,  as  quietly  as  if  nothing  had  occurred, 
"  Oblige  me  by  pushing  that  pen  and  paper  here, 
will  you?  " 

No  thunderous,  bullying  superior  could  have 
exercised  the  imperious  spell  that  Grandcourt 
did.  Why,  instead  of  being  obeyed,  he  had  never 
been  told  to  go  to  a  warmer  place,  was  perhaps 
a  mystery  to  several  who  found  themselves 
obeying  him.  The  pen  and  paper  were  pushed 
to  him,  and  as  he  took  them  he  said,  "  Just  wait 
for  this  letter." 

He  scrawled  with  ease,  and  the  brief  note  was 
quickly  addressed.    "  Let  Hutchins  go  with  it 


MAIDENS  CHOOSING  15 


at  once,  wiU  you?"  said  Grandcourt,  pushing 
the  letter  away  from  him. 

As  Lush  had  expected,  it  was  addressed  to 
Miss  Harleth,  Offendene.  When  his  irritation 
had  cooled  down,  he  was  glad  there  had  been  no 
explosive  quarrel;  but  he  felt  sure  that  there  was 
a  notch  made  against  him,  and  that  somehow  or 
other  he  was  intended  to  pay.  It  was  also  clear 
to  him  that  the  immediate  effect  of  his  revelation 
had  been  to  harden  Grandcourt's  previous  de- 
termination. But  as  to  the  particular  move- 
ments which  made  this  process  in  his  baffling 
mind,  Lush  could  only  toss  up  his  chin  in  despair 
of  a  theory. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


"He  brings  white  asses  laden  with  the  freight 
Of  Tyrian  vessels,  purple,  gold,  and  bahn. 
To  bribe  my  will:  I'll  bid  them  chase  him  forth. 
Nor  let  him  breathe  the  taint  of  his  surmise 
On  my  secure  resolve 

Ay,  't  is  secure, 
And  therefore  let  him  come  to  spread  his  freight. 
For  firmness  hath  its  appetite  and  craves 
The  stronger  lure,  more  strongly  to  resist; 
"Would  know  the  touch  of  gold  to  fling  it  off ; 
Scent  wine  to  feel  its  hp  the  soberer ; 
Behold  soft  byssus,  ivory,  and  plumes 
To  say,  'They're  fair,  but  I  will  none  of  them,' 
And  flout  Enticement  in  the  very  face." 

MR.  GASCOIGNE  one  day  came  to  Of- 
fendene  with  what  he  felt  to  be  the  satis- 
factory news  that  Mrs.  Mompert  had 
fixed  Tuesday  in  the  following  week  for  her  in- 
terview with  Gwendolen  at  Wanchester.  He 
said  nothing  of  his  having  incidentally  heard 
that  Mr.  Grandcourt  had  returned  to  Diplow; 
knowing  no  more  than  she  did  that  Leubronn 
had  been  the  goal  of  her  admirer's  journejnng, 
and  feeling  that  it  would  be  unkind  uselessly  to 
revive  the  memory  of  a  brilliant  prospect  under 
the  present  reverses.  In  his  secret  soul  he 
thought  of  his  niece's  unintelligible  caprice  with 
regret,  but  he  vindicated  her  to  himself  by  con- 
sidering that  Grandcourt  had  been  the  first  to 
behave  oddly,  in  suddenly  walking  away  when 
there  had  been  the  best  opportunity  for  crown- 
ing his  marked  attentions.  The  Rector's  prac- 
tical judgment  told  him  that  his  chief  duty  to 
his  niece  now  was  to  encourage  her  resolutely  to 


MAIDENS  CHOOSING  17 


face  the  change  in  her  lot,  since  there  was  no 
manifest  promise  of  any  event  that  would  avert 
it. 

"  You  will  find  an  interest  in  varied  experi- 
ence, my  dear,  and  I  have  no  doubt  you  will  be 
a  more  valuable  woman  for  having  sustained 
such  a  part  as  you  are  called  to." 

"  I  cannot  pretend  to  believe  that  I  shall  like 
it,"  said  Gwendolen,  for  the  first  time  showing 
her  uncle  some  petulance.  "  But  I  am  quite 
aware  that  I  am  obliged  to  bear  it." 

She  remembered  having  submitted  to  his  ad- 
monition on  a  different  occasion,  when  she  was 
expected  to  like  a  very  different  prospect. 

"  And  your  good  sense  will  teach  you  to  be- 
have suitably  under  it,"  said  Mr.  Gascoigne, 
with  a  shade  more  gravity.  "I  feel  sure  that 
Mrs.  Mompert  will  be  pleased  with  you.  You 
will  know  how  to  conduct  yourself  to  a  woman 
who  holds  in  all  senses  the  relation  of  superior  to 
you.  This  trouble  has  come  on  you  young,  but 
that  makes  it  in  some  respects  easier,  and  there 
is  benefit  in  all  chastisement  if  we  adjust  our 
minds  to  it." 

This  was  precisely  what  Gwendolen  was  un- 
able to  do;  and  after  her  uncle  was  gone,  the 
bitter  tears,  which  had  rarely  come  during  the 
late  trouble,  rose  and  fell  slowly  as  she  sat  alone. 
Her  heart  denied  that  the  trouble  was  easier  be- 
cause she  was  young.  When  was  she  to  have 
any  happiness,  if  it  did  not  come  while  she  was 
young?  Not  that  her  visions  of  possible  happi- 
ness for  herself  were  as  unmixed  with  necessary 
evil  as  they  used  to  be,  —  not  that  she  could  still 
imagine  herself  plucking  the  fruits  of  life  with- 

VOL.  XIII — 2 


18  DANIEL  DERONDA 


out  suspicion  of  their  core.  But  this  general  dis- 
enchantment with  the  world,  —  nay,  with  her- 
self, since  it  appeared  that  she  was  not  made  for 
easy  pre-eminence,  —  only  intensified  her  sense 
of  forlornness:  it  was  a  visibly  sterile  distance 
enclosing  the  dreary  path  at  her  feet,  in  which 
she  had  no  courage  to  tread.  She  was  in  that 
first  crisis  of  passionate  youthful  rebellion 
against  what  is  not  fitly  called  pain,  but  rather 
the  absence  of  joy,  —  that  first  rage  of  disap- 
pointment in  life's  morning,  which  we  whom 
the  years  have  subdued  are  apt  to  remember  but 
dimly  as  part  of  our  own  experience,  and  so  to 
be  intolerant  of  its  self -enclosed  unreasonable- 
ness and  impiety.  What  passion  seems  more 
absurd,  when  we  have  got  outside  it  and  looked 
at  calamity  as  a  collective  risk,  than  this  amazed 
anguish  that  I  and  not  Thou,  He,  or  She  should 
be  just  the  smitten  one?  Yet  perhaps  some  who 
have  afterwards  made  themselves  a  willing  fence 
before  the  breast  of  another,  and  have  carried 
their  own  heart-wound  in  heroic  silence,  —  some 
who  have  made  their  latter  deeds  great,  never- 
theless began  with  this  angry  amazement  at  their 
own  smart,  and  on  the  mere  denial  of  their  fan- 
tastic desires  raged  as  if  under  the  sting  of  wasps 
which  reduced  the  universe  for  them  to  an  un- 
just infliction  of  pain.  This  was  nearly  poor 
Gwendolen's  condition.  What  though  such  a 
reverse  as  hers  had  often  happened  to  other 
girls?  The  one  point  she  had  been  all  her  life 
learning  to  care  for  was,  that  it  had  happened 
to  her:  it  was  what  she  felt  under  Klesmer's 
demonstration  that  she  was  not  remarkable 
enough  to  command  fortune  by  force  of  will  and 


MAIDENS  CHOOSING  19 


merit;  it  was  what  she  would  feel  under  the 
rigours  of  Mrs.  Mompert's  constant  expectation, 
under  the  dull  demand  that  she  should  be  cheer- 
ful with  three  Miss  Momperts,  under  the  neces- 
sity of  showing  herself  entirely  submissive,  and 
keeping  her  thoughts  to  herself.  To  be  a  queen 
disthroned  is  not  so  hard  as  some  other  down- 
stepping:  imagine  one  who  had  been  made  to 
believe  in  his  own  divinity  finding  all  homage 
withdrawn,  and  himself  unable  to  perform  a 
miracle  that  would  recall  the  homage  and  restore 
his  own  confidence.  Something  akin  to  this  il- 
lusion and  this  helplessness  had  befallen  the  poor 
spoiled  child,  with  the  lovely  lips  and  eyes  and 
the  majestic  figure,  —  which  seemed  now  to 
have  no  magic  in  them. 

She  rose  from  the  low  ottoman  where  she  had 
been  sitting  purposeless,  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  drawing-room,  resting  her  elbow  on 
one  palm  while  she  leaned  down  her  cheek  on  the 
other,  and  a  slow  tear  fell.  She  thought,  "  I 
have  always,  ever  since  I  was  little,  felt  that 
mamma  was  not  a  happy  woman;  and  now  I 
dare  say  I  shall  be  more  unhappy  than  she  has 
been."  Her  mind  dwelt  for  a  few  moments  on 
the  picture  of  herself  losing  her  youth  and  ceas- 
ing to  enjoy,  —  not  minding  whether  she  did 
this  or  that:  but  such  picturing  inevitably 
brought  back  the  image  of  her  mother.  "  Poor 
mamma!  it  will  be  still  worse  for  her  now.  I  can 
get  a  little  money  for  her,  —  that  is  all  I  shall 
care  about  now."  And  then  with  an  entirely 
new  movement  of  her  imagination,  she  saw  her 
mother  getting  quite  old  and  white,  and  herself 
no  longer  young  but  faded,  and  their  two  faces 


20  DANIEL  DERONDA 


meeting  still  with  memory  and  love,  and  she 
knowing  what  was  in  her  mother's  mind  — 
"  Poor  Gwen  too  is  sad  and  faded  now  "  —  and 
then  for  the  first  time  she  sobbed,  not  in  anger 
but  with  a  sort  of  tender  misery. 

Her  face  was  towards  the  door,  and  she  saw 
her  mother  enter.  She  barely  saw  that ;  for  her 
eyes  were  large  with  tears,  and  she  pressed  her 
handkerchief  against  them  hurriedly.  Before 
she  took  it  away  she  felt  her  mother's  arms  round 
her,  and  this  sensation,  which  seemed  a  prolonga- 
tion of  her  inward  vision,  overcame  her  will  to  be 
reticent:  she  sobbed  anew  in  spite  of  herself,  as 
they  pressed  their  cheeks  together.  - 

Mrs.  Davilow  had  brought  something  in  her 
hand  which  had  already  caused  her  an  agitating 
anxiety,  and  she  dared  not  speak  until  her  dar- 
ling had  become  calmer.  But  Gwendolen,  with 
whom  weeping  had  always  been  a  painful  mani- 
festation to  be  resisted  if  possible,  again  pressed 
her  handkerchief  against  her  eyes,  and  with  a 
deep  breath  drew  her  head  backward  and  looked 
at  her  mother,  who  wajs  pale  and  tremulous. 

"  It  was  nothing,  mamma,"  said  Gwendolen, 
thinking  that  her  mother  had  been  moved  in  this 
way  simply  by  finding  her  in  distress.  "  It  is  all 
over  now." 

But  Mrs.  Davilow  had  withdrawn  her  arms, 
and  Gwendolen  perceived  a  letter  in  her  hand. 

"What  is  that  letter?  —  worse  news  still?" 
she  asked  with  a  touch  of  bitterness. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  will  think  it,  dear," 
said  Mrs.  Davilow,  keeping  the  letter  in  her 
hand.  "  You  will  hardly  guess  where  it  comes 
from." 


MAIDENS  CHOOSING  21 


"  Don't  ask  me  to  guess  anything,"  said 
Gwendolen,  rather  impatiently,  as  if  a  bruise 
were  being  pressed. 

"It  is  addressed  to  you,  dear." 

Gwendolen  gave  the  slightest  perceptible  toss 
of  the  head. 

"  It  comes  from  Diplow,"  said  Mrs.  Davilow, 
giving  her  the  letter. 

She  knew  Grandcourt's  indistinct  handwrit- 
ing, and  her  mother  was  not  surprised  to  see  her 
blush  deeply ;  but  watching  her  as  she  read,  and 
wondering  much  what  was  the  purport  of  the 
letter,  she  saw  the  colour  die  out.  Gwendolen's 
lips  even  were  pale  as  she  turned  the  open  note 
towards  her  mother.  The  words  were  few  and 
formal. 

"  Mr.  Grandcourt  presents  his  compliments  to  Miss 
Harleth,  and  begs  to  know  whether  he  may  be  per- 
mitted to  call  at  Offendene  to-morrow  after  two,  and  to 
see  her  alone.  Mr,  Grandcourt  has  just  returned  from 
Leubronn,  where  he  had  hoped  to  find  Miss  Harleth." 

Mrs.  Davilow  read,  and  then  looked  at  her 
daughter  inquiringly,  leaving  the  note  in  her 
hand.  Gwendolen  let  it  fall  on  the  floor,  and 
turned  away. 

"  It  must  be  answered,  darling,"  said  Mrs. 
Davilow,  timidly.   "  The  man  waits." 

Gwendolen  sank  on  the  settee,  clasped  her 
hands,  and  looked  straight  before  her,  not  at  her 
mother.  She  had  the^  expression  of  one  who  had 
been  startled  by  a  sound  and  was  listening  to 
know  what  would  come  of  it.  The  sudden 
change  of  the  situation  was  bewildering.  A  few 
minutes  before  she  was  looking  along  an  ines- 


22  DANIEL  DERONDA 


capable  path  of  repulsive  monotony,  with  hope- 
less inward  rebellion  against  the  imperious  lot 
which  left  her  no  choice ;  and  lo,  now,  a  moment  of 
choice  was  come.  Yet  —  was  it  triumph  she  felt 
most  or  terror?  Impossible  for  Gwendolen  not 
to  feel  some  triumph  in  a  tribute  to  her  power  at 
a  time  when  she  was  first  tasting  the  bitterness  of 
insignificance:  again  she  seemed  to  be  getting 
a  sort  of  empire  over  her  own  life.  But  how  to 
use  it?  Here  came  the  terror.  Quick,  quick, 
like  pictures  in  a  book  beaten  open  with  a  sense 
of  hurry,  came  back  vividly,  yet  in  fragments, 
all  that  she  had  gone  through  in  relation  to 
Grandcourt,  —  the  allurements,  the  vacillations, 
the  resolve  to  accede,  the  final  repulsion ;  the  in- 
cisive face  of  that  dark-eyed  lady  with  the  lovely 
boy;  her  own  pledge  (was  it  a  pledge  not  to 
marry  him?)  —  the  new  disbelief  in  the  worth 
of  men  and  things  for  which  that  scene  of  dis- 
closure had  become  a  symbol.  That  unalter- 
able experience  made  a  vision  at  which  in  the 
first  agitated  moment,  before  tempering  reflec- 
tions could  suggest  themselves,  her  native  terror 
shrank. 

Where  was  the  good  of  choice  coming  again? 
What  did  she  wish?  Anything  different?  No! 
and  yet  in  the  dark  seed-growths  of  consciousness 
a  new  wish  was  forming  itself,  —  "I  wish  I  had 
never  known  it!"  Something,  anything  she 
wished  for  that  would  have  saved  her  from  the 
dread  to  let  Grandcourt  come. 

It  was  no  long  while,  —  yet  it  seemed  long  to 
Mrs.  Davilow,  before  she  thought  it  well  to  say, 
gently,  — 

"  It  will  be  necessary  for  you  to  write,  dear. 


MAIDENS  CHOOSING  23 


Or  shall  I  write  an  answer  for  you,  —  which  you 
will  dictate?" 

"  No,  mamma,"  said  Gwendolen,  drawing  a 
deep  breath.  "  But  please  lay  me  out  the  pen 
and  paper." 

That  was  gaining  time.  Was  she  to  decline 
Grandcourt's  visit,  —  close  the  shutters,  —  not 
even  look  out  on  what  would  happen  ?  —  though 
with  the  assurance  that  she  should  remain  just 
where  she  was?  The  young  activity  within  her 
made  a  warm  current  through  her  terror,  and 
stirred  towards  something  that  would  be  an 
event,  —  towards  an  opportunity  in  which  she 
could  look  and  speak  with  the  former  effective- 
ness. The  interest  of  the  morrow  was  no  longer 
at  a  dead-lock. 

"  There  is  really  no  reason  on  earth  why  you 
should  be  so  alarmed  at  the  man's  waiting  a 
few  minutes,  mamma,"  said  Gwendolen,  remon- 
strantly,  as  Mrs.  Davilow,  having  prepared 
the  writing  materials,  looked  towards  her  ex- 
pectantly. "  Servants  expect  nothing  else  than 
to  wait.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  I  must 
write  on  the  instant." 

"  No,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Davilow,  in  the  tone  of 
one  corrected,  turning  to  sit  down  and  take  up  a 
bit  of  work  that  lay  at  hand;  "  he  can  wait  an- 
other quarter  of  an  hour,  if  you  like." 

It  was  very  simple  speech  and  action  on  her 
part,  but  it  was  what  might  have  been  subtly  cal- 
culated. Gwendolen  felt  a  contradictory  desire 
to  be  hastened:  hurry  would  save  her  from  de- 
liberate choice. 

"  I  did  not  mean  him  to  wait  long  enough  for 
that  needlework  to  be  finished,"  she  said,  lifting 


24 


DANIEL  DERONDA 


her  hands  to  stroke  the  backward  curves  of  her 
hau*,  while  she  rose  from  her  seat  and  stood  still. 

"  But  if  you  don't  feel  able  to  decide?  "  said 
Mrs.  Davilow,  sympathizingly. 

"  I  must  decide,"  said  Gwendolen,  walking  to 
the  writing-table  and  seating  herself.  All  the 
while  there  was  a  busy  undercurrent  in  her,  like 
the  thought  of  a  man  who  keeps  up  a  dialogue 
while  he  is  considering  how  he  can  slip  away. 
Why  should  she  not  let  him  come  ?  It  bound  her 
to  nothing.  He  had  been  to  Leubronn  after  her : 
of  course  he  meant  a  direct  unmistakable  renewal 
of  the  suit  which  before  had  been  only  implied. 
What  then?  She  could  reject  him.  Why  was 
she  to  deny  herself  the  freedom  of  doing  this,  — ■ 
which  she  would  like  to  do  ? 

"If  Mr.  Grandcourt  has  only  just  returned 
from  Leubronn,"  said  JNIrs.  Davilow,  observing 
that  Gwendolen  leaned  back  in  her  chair  after 
taking  the  pen  in  her  hand,  —  "I  wonder 
whether  he  has  heard  of  our  misfortunes." 

"  That  could  make  no  difference  to  a  man  in 
his  position,"  said  Gwendolen,  rather  contemptu- 
ously. 

"  It  would,  to  some  men,"  said  Mrs.  Davilow. 
"  They  would  not  like  to  take  a  wife  from  a  fam- 
ily in  a  state  of  beggary  almost,  as  we  are.  Here 
we  are  at  Offendene,  with  a  great  shell  over  us 
as  usual.  But  just  imagine  his  finding  us  at 
Sa\\yer's  Cottage.  JNIost  men  are  afraid  of  be- 
ing bored  or  taxed  by  a  ^dfe's  family.  If  ]Mr. 
Grandcourt  did  know,  I  think  it  a  strong  proof 
of  his  attachment  to  you." 

Mrs.  Davilow  spoke  with  unusual  emphasis: 
it  was  the  first  time  she  had  ventured  to  say  any- 


MAIDENS  CHOOSING  25 


thing  about  Grandcourt  which  would  necessarily 
seem  intended  as  an  argument  in  favour  of  him, 
her  habitual  impression  being  that  such  argu- 
ments would  certainly  be  useless  and  might  be 
worse.  The  effect  of  her  words  now  was 
stronger  than  sjie  could  imagine:  they  raised  a 
new  set  of  possibilities  in  Gwendolen's  mind,  —  a 
vision  of  what  Grandcourt  might  do  for  her 
mother  if  she,  Gwendolen,  did — what  she  was  not 
going  to  do.  She  was  so  moved  by  a  new  rush  of 
ideas,  that,  like  one  conscious  of  being  urgently 
called  away,  she  felt  that  the  immediate  task 
must  be  hastened:  the  letter  must  be  written, 
else  it  might  be  endlessly  deferred.  After  all, 
she  acted  in  a  hurry,  as  she  had  wished  to  do. 
To  act  in  a  hurry  was  to  have  a  reason  for  keep- 
ing away  from  an  absolute  decision,  and  to 
leave  open  as  many  issues  as  possible. 
She  wrote :  — 

"  Miss  Harleth  presents  her  compliments  to  Mr. 
Grandcourt.  She  will  be  at  home  after  two  o'clock 
to-morrow." 

Before  addressing  the  note  she  said,  "  Pray 
ring  the  bell,  mamma,  if  there  is  any  one  to  an- 
swer it."  She  really  did  not  know  who  did  the 
work  of  the  house. 

It  was  not  till  after  the  letter  had  been  taken 
away  and  Gwendolen  had  risen  again,  stretching 
out  one  arm  and  then  resting  it  on  her  head,  with 
a  long  moan  which  had  a  sound  of  relief  in  it, 
that  Mrs.  Davilow  ventured  to  ask,  — 

"  What  did  you  say,  Gwen?  " 

"  I  said  that  I  should  be  at  home,"  answered 
Gwendolen,  rather  loftily.   Then,  after  a  pause, 


26  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  You  must  not  expect,  because  Mr.  Grand- 
court  is  coming,  that  anything  is  going  to 
happen,  mamma." 

"  I  don't  allow  myself  to  expect  anything, 
dear.  I  desire  you  to  follow  your  own  feeling. 
You  have  never  told  me  what  th^t  was." 

"  What  is  the  use  of  telling?  "  said  Gwendo- 
len, hearing  a  reproach  in  that  true  statement. 
"  When  I  have  anything  pleasant  to  tell,  you 
may  be  sure  I  will  tell  you." 

"  But  Mr.  Grandcourt  will  consider  that  you 
have  already  accepted  him,  in  allowing  him  to 
come.  His  note  tells  you  plainly  enough  that  he 
is  coming  to  make  you  an  offer." 

"  Very  well;  and  I  wish  to  have  the  pleasure 
of  refusing  him." 

Mrs.  Davilow  looked  up  in  wonderment,  but 
Gwendolen  implied  her  wish  not  to  be  questioned 
further  by  saying,  — 

"  Put  down  that  detestable  needlework,  and 
let  us  walk  in  the  avenue.   I  am  stifled." 


CHAPTER  IX 


"Desire  has  trimmed  the  sails,  and  Circumstance 
Brings  but  the  breeze  to  fill  them." 

WHILE  Grandcourt  on  his  beautiful 
black  Yarico,  the  groom  behind  him  on 
Criterion,  was  taking  the  pleasant  ride 
from  Diplow  to  Offendene,  Gwendolen  was 
seated  before  the  mirror  while  her  mother  gath- 
ered up  the  lengthy  mass  of  light-brown  hair 
which  she  had  been  carefully  brushing. 

"  Only  gather  it  up  easily  and  make  a  coil, 
mamma,"  said  Gwendolen. 

"  Let  me  bring  you  some  earrings,  Gwen," 
said  Mrs.  Davilow,  when  the  hair  was  adjusted, 
and  they  were  both  looking  at  the  reflection  in  the 
glass.  It  was  impossible  for  them  not  to  notice 
that  the  eyes  looked  brighter  than  they  had  done 
of  late,  that  there  seemed  to  be  a  shadow  lifted 
from  the  face,  leaving  all  the  lines  once  more  in 
their  placid  youthfulness.  The  mother  drew 
some  inferences  that  made  her  voice  rather  cheer- 
ful. "  You  do  want  your  earrings?  " 

"  No,  mamma;  I  shall  not  wear  any  orna- 
ments, and  I  shall  put  on  my  black  silk.  Black 
is  the  only  wear  when  one  is  going  to  refuse  an 
offer,"  said  Gwendolen,  with  one  of  her  old 
smiles  at  her  mother,  while  she  rose  to  throw  off 
her  dressing-gown. 

"  Suppose  the  offer  is  not  made  after  all,"  said 
Mrs.  Davilow,  not  without  a  sly  intention. 
"  Then  that  will  be  because  I  refuse  it  before- 


28  DANIEL  DERONDA 


hand,"  said  Gwendolen.  "  It  comes  to  the  same 
thing." 

There  was  a  proud  little  toss  of  her  head  as 
she  said  this;  and  when  she  walked  dowfistairs 
in  her  long  black  robes,  there  was  just  that  firm 
poise  of  head  and  elasticity  of  form  which  had 
lately  been  missing,  as  in  a  parched  plant.  Her 
mother  thought,  "  She  is  quite  herself  again.  It 
must  be  pleasure  in  his  coming.  Can  her  mind 
be  really  made  up  against  him?  " 

Gwendolen  would  have  been  rather  angry  if 
that  thought  had  been  uttered;  perhaps  all  the 
more  because  through  the  last  twenty  hours,  with 
a  brief  interruption  of  sleep,  she  had.  been  so 
occupied  with  perpetually  alternating  images 
and  arguments  for  and  against  the  possibility  of 
her  marrying  Grandcourt,  that  the  conclusion 
which  she  had  determined  on  beforehand  ceased 
to  have  any  hold  on  her  consciousness :  the  alter- 
nate dip  of  counterbalancing  thoughts  begot- 
ten of  counterbalancing  desires  had  brought  her 
into  a  state  in  which  no  conclusion  could  look 
fixed  to  her.  She  would  have  expressed  her 
resolve  as  before;  but  it  was  a  form  out  of  which 
the  blood  had  been  sucked,  —  no  more  a  part 
of  quivering  life  than  the  "  God's  will  be  done  " 
of  one  who  is  eagerly  watching  chances.  She 
did  not  mean  to  accept  Grandcourt;  from  the 
first  moment  of  receiving  his  letter  she  had 
meant  to  refuse  him;  still,  that  could  not  but 
prompt  her  to  look  the  unwelcome  reasons  full 
in  the  face  until  she  had  a  little  less  awe  of  them, 
could  not  hinder  her  imagination  from  filling 
out  her  knowledge  in  various  ways,  some  of 
which  seemed  to  change  the  aspect  of  what  she 


MAIDENS  CHOOSING  20 


knew.  By  dint  of  looking  at  a  dubious  object 
with  a  constructive  imagination,  one  can  give 
it  twenty  different  shapes.  Her  indistinct 
grounds  of  hesitation  before  the  interview  at 
the  Whispering  Stones,  at  present  counted  for 
nothing;  they  were  all  merged  in  the  final  re- 
pulsion. If  it  had  not  been  for  that  day  in 
Cardell  Chase,  she  said  to  herself  now,  there 
would  have  been  no  obstacle  to  her  marrying 
Grandcourt.  On  that  day  and  after  it,  she  had 
not  reasoned  and  balanced:  she  had  acted  with 
a  force  of  impulse  against  which  all  questioning 
was  no  more  than  a  voice  against  a  torrent.  The 
impulse  had  come,  —  not  only  from  her  maidenly 
pride  and  jealousy,  not  only  from  the  shock 
of  another  woman's  calamity  thrust  close  on  her 
vision,  but  —  from  her  dread  of  wrong-doing, 
which  was  vague,  it  is  true,  and  aloof  from  the 
daily  details  of  her  life,  but  not  the  less  strong. 
Whatever  was  accepted  as  consistent  with  being 
a  lady  she  had  no  scruple  about;  but  from  the 
dim  region  of  what  was  called  disgraceful, 
wrong,  guilty,  she  shrank  with  mingled  pride 
and  terror;  and  even  apart  from  shame,  her 
feeling  would  have  made  her  place  any  delib- 
erate injury  of  another  in  the  region  of  guilt. 

But  now  —  did  she  know  exactty  what  was 
the  state  of  the  case  with  regard  to  Mrs.  Glasher 
and  her  children?  She  had  given  a  sort  of  prom- 
ise, —  had  said,  "  I  will  not  interfere  with  your 
wishes."  But  would  another  woman  who  mar- 
ried Grandcourt  be  in  fact  the  decisive  obstacle 
to  her  wishes,  or  be  doing  her  and  her  boy  any 
real  injury?  Might  it  not  be  just  as  well,  nay 
better,  that  Grandcourt  should  marry?  For 


30  DANIEL  DERONDA 


what  could  not  a  woman  do  when  she  was  mar- 
ried, if  she  knew  how  to  assert  herself?  Here 
all  was  constructive  imagination.  Gwendolen 
had  about  as  accurate  a  conception  of  marriage 
—  that  is  to  say,  of  the  mutual  influences,  de- 
mands, duties  of  man  and  woman  in  the  state 
of  matrimony  —  as  she  had  of  magnetic  currents 
and  the  law  of  storms. 

"  Mamma  managed  badly,"  was  her  way  of 
summing  up  what  she  had  seen  of  her  mother's 
experience;  she  herself  would  manage  quite 
differently.  And  the  trials  of  matrimony  were 
the  last  theme  into  which  Mrs.  Davilow  could 
choose  to  enter  fully  with  this  daughter. 

"  I  wonder  what  mamma  and  my  uncle  would, 
say  if  they  knew  about  Mrs.  Glasher!  "  thought 
Gwendolen,  in  her  inward  debating;  not  that 
she  could  imagine  herself  telling  them,  even  if 
she  had  not  felt  bound  to  silence.  "  I  wonder 
what  anybody  would  say;  or  what  they  would 
say  to  Mr.  Grandcourt's  marrying  some  one 
else  and  having  other  children!"  To  consider 
what  "  anybody  "  would  say,  was  to  be  released 
from  the  difficulty  of  judging  where  everything 
was  obscure  to  her  when  feeling  had  ceased  to 
be  decisive.  She  had  only  to  collect  her  memo- 
ries, which  proved  to  her  that  "  anybody  "  re- 
garded illegitimate  children  as  more  rightfully 
to  be  looked  shy  on  and  deprived  of  social  advan- 
tages than  illegitimate  fathers.  The  verdict  of 
"  anybody  "  seemed  to  be  that  she  had  no  reason 
to  concern  herself  greatly  on  behalf  of  Mrs. 
Glasher  and  her  children. 

But  there  was  another  way  in  which  they  had 
caused  her  concern.    What  others  might  think, 


MAIDENS  CHOOSING  31 


could  not  do  away  with  a  feeling  v/hich  in  the 
first  instance  would  hardly  be  too  strongly  de- 
scribed as  indignation  and  loathing  that  she 
should  have  been  expected  to  unite  herself  with 
an  outworn  life,  full  of  baclovard  secrets  which 
must  have  been  more  keenly  felt  than  any  asso- 
ciations with  her.  True,  the  question  of  love  on 
her  own  part  had  occupied  her  scarcely  at  all 
in  relation  to  Grandcourt.  The  desirability  of 
marriage  for  her  had  always  seemed  due  to  other 
feelings  than  love;  and  to  be  enamoured  was 
the  part  of  the  man,  on  whom  the  advances  de- 
pended. Gwendolen  had  found  no  objection 
to  Grandcourt' s  way  of  being  enamoured  before 
she  had  had  that  glimpse  of  his  past,  which  she 
resented  as  if  it  had  been  a  deliberate  offence 
against  her.  His  advances  to  her  were  delib- 
erate, and  she  felt  a  retrospective  disgust  for 
them.  Perhaps  other  men's  lives  were  of  the 
same  kind,  —  full  of  secrets  which  made  the 
ignorant  suppositions  of  the  woman  they  wanted 
to  marry  a  farce  at  which  they  were  laughing 
in  their  sleeves. 

These  feelings  of  disgust  and  indignation 
had  sunk  deep;  and  though  other  troublous 
experience  in  the  last  weeks  had  dulled  them 
from  passion  into  remembrance,  it  was  chiefly 
their  reverberating  activity  which  kept  her  firm 
to  the  understanding  with  herself,  that  she  was 
not  going  to  accept  Grandcourt.  She  had  never 
meant  to  form  a  new  determination;  she  had 
only  been  considering  what  might  be  thought 
or  said.  If  anything  could  have  induced  her  to 
change,  it  would  have  been  the  prospect  of 
making  all  things  easy  for  "poor  mamma:" 


32  DANIEL  DERONDA 


that,  she  admitted,  was  a  temptation.  But  no! 
she  was  going  to  refuse  him.  Meanwhile  the 
thought  that  he  was  coming  to  be  refused  was 
inspiriting :  she  had  the  white  reins  in  her  hands 
again;  there  was  a  new  current  in  her  frame, 
reviving  her  from  the  beaten-down  conscious- 
ness in  which  she  had  been  left  by  the  interview 
with  Klesmer.  She  was  not  now  going  to  crave 
an  opinion  of  her  capabilities ;  she  was  going  to 
exercise  her  power. 

Was  this  what  made  her  heart  palpitate  an- 
noyingly  when  she  heard  the  horse's  footsteps 
on  the  gravel  ?  —  w  hen  Miss  Merry,  who  opened 
the  door  to  Grandcourt,  came  to  tell  her  that  he 
was  in  the  drawing-room?  The  hours  of  prepa- 
ration and  the  triumph  of  the  situation  were 
apparently  of  no  use:  she  might  as  well  have 
seen  Grandcourt  coming  suddenly  on  her  in  the 
midst  of  her  despondency.  While  walking  into 
the  drawing-room  she  had  to  concentrate  all  her 
energy  in  that  self-control  which  made  her  ap- 
pear gravely  gracious  as  she  gave  her  hand  to 
him,  and  answered  his  hope  that  she  was  quite 
well  in  a  voice  as  low  and  languid  as  his  own. 
A  moment  afterwards,  when  they  were  both  of 
them  seated  on  two  of  the  wreath-painted  chairs, 
—  Gwendolen  upright  with  downcast  eyelids, 
Grandcourt  about  fwo  yards  distant,  leaning 
one  arm  over  the  back  of  his  chair  and  looking 
at  her,  while  he  held  his  hat  in  his  left  hand,  — 
any  one  seeing  them  as  a  picture  would  have 
concluded  that  they  were  in  some  stage  of  love- 
making  suspense.  And  certainly  the  love- 
making  had  begun:  she  already  felt  herself 
being  wooed  by  this  silent  man  seated  at  ai\ 


MAIDENS  CHOOSING  33 


agreeable  distance,  with  the  subtlest  atmosphere 
of  attar  of  roses  and  an  attention  bent  wholly 
on  her.  And  he  also  considered  himself  to  be 
wooing:  he  was  not  a  man  to  suppose  that  his 
presence  carried  no  consequences;  and  he  was 
exactly  the  man  to  feel  the  utmost  piquancy  in 
a  girl  whom  he  had  not  found  quite  calculable. 

"  I  was  disappointed  not  to  find  you  at  Leu- 
bronn,"  he  began,  his  usual  broken  drav/1  having 
just  a  shade  of  amorous  languor  in  it.  "  The 
place  was  intolerable  without  you.  A  mere  ken- 
nel of  a  place.    Don't  you  think  so?  " 

"  I  can't  judge  what  it  would  be  Vvithout  my- 
self," said  Gwendolen,  turning  her  eyes  on  him, 
with  some  recovered  sense  of  mischief.  "  With 
myself  I  liked  it  well  enough  to  have  stayed 
longer,  if  I  could.  But  I  was  obliged  to  come 
home  on  account  of  family  troubles." 

"  It  was  very  cruel  of  you  to  go  to  Leubronn," 
said  Grandcourt,  taking  no  notice  of  the  trou- 
bles, on  which  Gwendolen  —  she  hardly  knew 
why  —  wished  that  there  should  be  a  clear  under- 
standing at  once.  "  You  must  have  known  that 
it  would  spoil  everything:  you  knew  you  were 
the  heart  and  soul  of  everything  that  went  on. 
Are  you  quite  reckless  about  m^e?  " 

It  was  impossible  to  sa}^  "  yes  "  in  a  tone  that 
would  be  taken  seriously,  equally  impossible  to 
say  "  no;  "  but  what  else  could  she  say?  In  her 
difficulty,  she  turned  down  her  eyelids  again, 
and  blushed  over  face  and  neck.  Grandcourt 
saw  her  in  a  new  phase,  and  believed  that  she  was 
showing  her  inclination ;  but  he  was  determined 
that  she  should  show  it  more  decidedly. 

"  Perhaps   there  is   some   deeper  interest? 

VOL.  XIII  —  3 


34  DANIEL  DERONDA 


Some  attraction  —  some  engagement  —  which 
it  would  have  been  only  fair  to  make  me  aware 
of?  Is  there  any  man  who  stands  between  us?  " 

Inwardly  the  answer  framed  itself,  "  No;  but 
there  is  a  woman."  Yet  how  could  she  utter 
this  ?  Even  if  she  had  not  promised  that  woman 
to  be  silent,  it  would  have  been  impossible  for 
her  to  enter  on  the  subject  with  Grandcourt. 
But  how  could  she  arrest  this  wooing  by  begin- 
ning to  make  a  formal  speech,  —  "I  perceive 
your  intention  —  it  is  most  flattering,  &c."?  A 
fish  honestly  invited  to  come  and  be  eaten  has 
a  clear  course  in  declining,  but  how  if  it  finds 
itself  swimming  against  a  net?  And  apart  from 
the  network,  would  she  have  dared  at  once  to 
say  anything  decisive?  Gwendolen  had  not 
time  to  be  clear  on  that  point.  As  it  was,  she 
felt  compelled  to  silence;  and  after  a  pause, 
Grandcourt  said,  — 

"  Am  I  to  understand  that  some  one  else  is 
preferred?  " 

Gwendolen,  now  impatient  of  her  own  em- 
barrassment, determined  to  rush  at  the  difficulty 
and  free  herself.  She  raised  her  eyes  again  and 
said  with  something  of  her  former  clearness  and 
defiance,  "  No,"  wishing  him  to  understand. 

What  then?  I  may  not  be  ready  to  take  you  J' 
There  was  nothing  that  Grandcourt  could  not 
understand  which  he  perceived  likely  to  affect 
his  amour  propre. 

"  The  last  thing  I  would  do,  is  to  importune 
you.  I  should  not  hope  to  win  you  by  making 
myself  a  bore.  If  there  were  no  hope  for  me, 
I  would  ask  you  to  tell  me  so  at  once,  that  I 
might  just  ride  away  to  —  no  matter  where." 


MAIDENS  CHOOSING  35 


Almost  to  her  own  astonishment,  Gwendolen 
felt  a  sudden  alarm  at  the  image  of  Grandcourt 
finally  riding  away.  What  would  be  left  her 
then?  Nothing  but  the  former  dreariness.  She 
liked  him  to  be  there.  She  snatched  at  the  sub- 
ject that  would  defer  any  decisive  answer. 

"  I  fear  you  are  not  aware  of  what  has  hap- 
pened to  us.  I  have  lately  had  to  think  so  much 
of  my  mamma's  troubles,  that  other  subjects 
have  been  quite  thrown  into  the  background. 
She  has  lost  all  her  fortune,  and  we  are  going 
to  leave  this  place.  I  must  ask  you  to  excuse 
my  seeming  preoccupied." 

In  eluding  a  direct  appeal  Gwendolen  recov- 
ered some  of  her  self-possession.  She  spoke 
with  dignity  and  looked  straight  at  Grandcourt, 
whose  long,  narrow,  impenetrable  eyes  met  hers, 
and  mysteriously  arrested  them,  —  mysteriously ; 
for  the  subtly  varied  drama  between  man  and 
woman  is  often  such  as  can  hardly  be  rendered 
in  words  put  together  like  dominos,  according 
to  obvious  fixed  marks.  The  word  of  all  work 
Love  will  no  more  express  the  myriad  modes  of 
mutual  attraction,  than  the  word  Thought  can 
inform  you  what  is  passing  through  your  neigh- 
bour's mind.  It  would  be  hard  to  tell  on  which 
side  —  Gwendolen's  or  Grandcourt's  —  the  in- 
fluence was  more  mixed.  At  that  moment  his 
strongest  w^ish  was  to  be  completely  master  of 
this  creature  —  this  piquant  combination  of 
maidenliness  and  mischief :  that  she  knew  things 
which  had  made  her  start  away  from  him, 
spurred  him  to  triumph  over  that  repugnance; 
and  he  was  believing  that  he  should  triumph. 
And  she  —  ah,  piteous  equality  in  the  need  to 


36  DANIEL  DERONDA 


dominate!  —  she  was  overcome  like  the  thirsty 
one  who  is  drawn  towards  the  seeming  water 
in  the  desert,  overcome  by  the  suffused  sense  that 
here  in  this  man's  homage  to  her  lay  the  rescue 
from  helpless  subjection  to  an  oppressive  lot. 

All  the  while  they  were  looking  at  each  other ; 
and  Grandcourt  said,  slowly  and  languidly  as 
if  it  were  of  no  importance,  other  things  having 
been  settled,  — 

"  You  will  tell  me  now,  I  hope,  that  Mrs. 
Davilow's  loss  of  fortune  will  not  trouble  you 
further.  You  will  trust  me  to  prevent  it  from 
weighing  upon  her.  You  will  give  me  the  claim 
to  provide  against  that." 

The  little  pauses  and  refined  drawlings  with 
which  this  speech  was  uttered,  gave  time  for 
Gwendolen  to  go  through  the  dream  of  a  life. 
As  the  words  penetrated  her,  they  had  the  effect 
of  a  draught  of  wine,  which  suddenly  makes  all 
things  easier,  desirable  things  not  so  wrong,  and 
people  in  general  less  disagreeable.  She  had 
a  momentary  phantasmal  love  for  this  man  who 
chose  his  words  so  well,  and  who  was  a  mere  in- 
carnation of  delicate  homage.  Repugnance, 
dread,  scruples,  —  these  were  dim  as  remem- 
bered pains,  while  she  was  already  tasting  relief 
under  the  immediate  pain  of  hopelessness.  She 
imagined  herself  already  springing  to  her 
mother,  and  being  playful  again.  Yet  when 
Grandcourt  had  ceased  to  speak,  there  was  an 
instant  in  which  she  was  conscious  of  being  at 
the  turning  of  the  ways. 

"  You  are  very  generous,"  she  said,  not  moving 
her  eyes,  and  speaking  with  a  gentle  intonation. 

"  You  accept  what  will  make  such  things  a 


MAIDENS  CHOOSING  37 


matter  of  course?  "  said  Grandcourt,  without  any- 
new  eagerness.  "  You  consent  to  become  my 
wife?" 

This  time  Gwendolen  remained  quite  pale. 
Something  made  her  rise  from  her  seat  in  spite 
of  herself  and  walk  to  a  httle  distance.  Then 
she  turned  and  with  her  hands  folded  before  her 
stood  in  silence. 

Grandcourt  immediately  rose  too,  resting  his 
hat  on  the  chair,  but  still  keeping  hold  of  it. 
The  evident  hesitation  of  this  destitute  girl  to 
take  his  splendid  offer  stung  him  into  a  keenness 
of  interest  such  as  he  had  not  known  for  years. 
None  the  less  because  he  attributed  her  hesitation 
entirely  to  her  knowledge  about  Mrs.  Glasher. 
In  that  attitude  of  preparation,  he  said,  — 

"  Do  you  command  me  to  go?  "  No  familiar 
spirit  could  have  suggested  to  him  more  effec- 
tive words. 

"  No,"  said  Gwendolen.  She  could  not  let 
him  go :  that  negative  was  a  clutch.  She  seemed 
to  herself  to  be,  after  all,  only  drifted  towards 
the  tremendous  decision;  but  drifting  depends 
on  something  besides  the  currents,  when  the  sails 
have  been  set  beforehand. 

"You  accept  my  devotion?"  said  Grand- 
court,  holding  his  hat  by  his  side  and  looking 
straight  into  her  eyes,  without  other  movement. 
Their  eyes  meeting  in  that  way  seemed  to  allow 
any  length  of  pause;  but  wait  as  long  as  she 
would,  how  could  she  contradict  herself?  What 
had  she  detained  him  for?  He  had  shut  out  any 
explanation. 

"  Yes,"  came  as  gravely  from  Gwendolen's 
lips  as  if  she  had  been  answering  to  her  name  in 


38  DANIEL  DEROXDA 


a  court  of  justice.  He  received  it  gravely,  and 
they  still  looked  at  each  other  in  the  same  atti- 
tude. Was  there  ever  before  such  a  way  of 
accepting  the  bhss-giving  /'  Yes  "  ?  Grandcoui^t 
hked  better  to  be  at  that  distance  from  her,  and 
to  feel  under  a  ceremony  imposed  by  an  inde- 
finable prohibition  that  breathed  from  Gwen- 
dolen's bearing. 

But  he  did  at  length  lay  do^ra  his  hat  and 
advance  to  take  her  hand,  just  pressing  his  lips 
upon  it  and  letting  it  go  again.  She  thought 
his  behaviour  perfect,  and  gained  a  sense  of 
freedom  which  made  her  ahnost  read}^  to  be  mis- 
chievous. Her  "  Yes  "  entailed  so  little  at  this 
moment,  that  there  was  nothing  to  screen  the 
reversal  of  her  gloomy  prospects:  her  vision 
was  filled  by  her  own  release  from  the  ]Momperts, 
and  her  mother's  release  from  Saw}^er's  Cottage. 
With  a  happy  curl  of  the  lips,  she  said,  — 

"  Will  you  not  see  mamma?  I  will  fetch  her." 

"  Let  us  wait  a  little,"  said  Grandcom^t,  in  his 
favourite  attitude,  having  his  left  forefinger  and 
thumb  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  with  his  right 
caressing  his  whisker,  while  he  stood  near  Gwen- 
dolen and  looked  at  her,  —  not  unlike  a  gentle- 
man who  has  a  felicitous  introduction  at  an 
evening  party. 

"  Have  you  ami:hing  else  to  say  to  me?  "  said 
Gwendolen,  playfully. 

"  Yes,  —  I  know  having  things  said  to  you 
is  a  great  bore,"  said  Grandcourt,  rather  s^tq- 
pathetically. 

"  Not  when  they  are  things  I  like  to  hear." 

"  Will  it  bother  you  to  be  asked  how  soon  we 
can  be  married? " 


MAIDENS  CHOOSING  39 


"  I  think  it  will,  to-day,"  said  Gwendolen, 
putting  up  her  chin  saucily. 

"  Not  to-day,  then,  but  to-morrow.  Think 
of  it  before  I  come  to-morrow.  In  a  fortnight 
—  or  three  weeks  —  as  soon  as  possible." 

Ah,  you  think  you  will  be  tired  of  my  com- 
pany," said  Gwendolen.  "  I  notice  when  people 
are  married  the  husband  is  not  so  much  with  his 
wife  as  when  they  were  engaged.  But  perhaps 
I  shall  like  that  better  too." 

She  laughed  charmingly. 

"  You  shall  have  whatever  you  like,"  said 
Grandcourt. 

"  And  nothing  that  I  don't  like?  —  please  say 
that;  because  I  think  I  dislike  Vv^hat  I  don't 
like  more  than  I  like  what  I  like,"  said  Gwen- 
dolen, finding  herself  in  the  woman's  paradise 
where  all  her  nonsense  is  adorable. 

Grandcourt  paused:  these  were  subtilties  in 
which  he  had  much  experience  of  his  own.  "  I 
don't  know  — this  is  such  a  brute  of  a  world, 
things  are  always  turning  up  that  one  does  n't 
like.  I  can't  always  hinder  your  being  bored. 
If  you  like  to  hunt  Criterion,  I  can't  hinder  his 
coming  down  by  some  chance  or  other." 

"  Ah,  my  friend  Criterion,  how  is  he? " 

"  He  is  outside :  I  made  the  groom  ride  him, 
that  you  might  see  him.  He  had  the  side-saddle 
on  for  an  hour  or  two  yesterday.  Come  to  the 
window  and  look  at  him." 

They  could  see  the  two  horses  being  taken 
slowly  round  the  sweep;  and  the  beautiful  crea- 
tures, in  their  fine  grooming,  sent  a  thrill  of 
exultation  through  Gwendolen.  They  were  the 
symbols  of  command  and  luxury,  in  delightful 


40  DANIEL  DERONDA 


contrast  with  the  ughness  of  poverty  and  humili- 
ation at  which  she  had  lately  been  looking  close. 

"Will  you  ride  Criterion  to-morrow?"  said 
Grandcourt.  "  If  you  will,  everything  shall  be 
arranged." 

"  I  should  like  it  of  all  things,"  said  Gwen- 
dolen. "  I  want  to  lose  myself  in  a  gallop  again. 
But  now  I  must  go  and  fetch  mamma." 

"  Take  my  arm  to  the  door,  then,"  said  Grand- 
court;  and  she  accepted.  Their  faces  were  very 
near  each  other,  being  almost  on  a  level,  and 
he  was  looking  at  her.  She  thought  his  manners 
as  a  lover  more  agreeable  than  any  she  had  seen 
described.  She  had  no  alarm  lest  he  meant  to 
kiss  her,  and  was  so  much  at  her  ease  that  she 
suddenly  paused  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and 
said,  half  archly,  half  earnestly,  — 

"  Oh,  while  I  think  of  it,  —  there  is  something 
I  dislike  that  you  can  save  me  from.  I  do  not 
like  Mr.  Lush's  company." 

"  You  shall  not  have  it.  I  '11  get  rid  of 
him." 

"  You  are  not  fond  of  him  yourself?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least.  I  let  him  hang  on  me 
because  he  has  always  been  a  poor  devil,"  said 
Grandcourt,  in  an  adagio  of  utter  indifference. 
"  They  got  him  to  travel  with  me  when  I  was 
a  lad.  He  was  always  that  coarse-haired  kind 
of  brute,  —  a  sort  of  cross  between  a  hog  and 
a  dilettante.'' 

Gwendolen  laughed.  All  that  seemed  kind 
and  natural  enough:  Grandcourt 's  fastidious- 
ness enhanced  the  kindness.  And  when  they 
reached  the  door,  his  way  of  opening  it  for  her 
was  the  perfection  of  easy  homage.  Really, 


MAIDENS  CHOOSING  41 


she  thought,  he  was  Ukely  to  be  the  least  dis- 
agreeable of  husbands. 

Mrs.  Davilow  was  waiting  anxiously  in  her 
bedroom  when  Gwendolen  entered,  stepped 
towards  her  quickly,  and  kissing  her  on  both 
cheeks  said  in  a  low  tone,  "  Come  down,  mamma, 
and  see  Mr.  Grandcourt.  I  am  engaged  to 
him." 

"  My  darling  child!  "  said  Mrs.  Davilow,  with 
a  surprise  that  was  rather  solemn  than  glad. 

"  Yes,"  said  Gwendolen,  in  the  same  tone, 
and  with  a  quickness  v/hich  implied  that  it  was 
needless  to  ask  questions.  "  Everything  is  set- 
tled. You  are  not  going  to  Sa^^yer's  Cottage, 
I  am  not  going  to  be  inspected  by  Mrs.  Mom- 
pert,  and  everything  is  to  be  as  I  like.  So  come 
down  with  me  immediately." 


Book  jTour 

GWENDOLEN  GETS  HER  CHOICE 


CHAPTER  I 


II  est  plus  aise  de  connoitre  rhomme  en  general  que  de  connoitre  un 
homme  en  particulier.  —  La  Rochefoucauld. 


N  hour  after  Grandcourt  had  left,  the  im- 


portant news  of  Gwendolen's  engage- 


ment was  known  at  the  Rectory,  and  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Gascoigne,  with  Anna,  spent  the  even- 
ing at  Offendene. 

"  My  dear,  let  me  congratulate  you  on  having 
created  a  strong  attachment,"  said  the  Rector. 
"You  look  serious,  and  I  don't  wonder  at  it: 
a  lifelong  union  is  a  solemn  thing.  But  from 
the  way  Mr.  Grandcourt  has  acted  and  spoken 
I  think  we  may  already  see  some  good  arising 
out  of  our  adversity.  It  has  given  you  an  oppor- 
tunity of  observing  your  future  husband's  deli- 
cate liberality." 

Mr.  Gascoigne  referred  to  Grandcourt's  mode 
of  implying  that  he  would  provide  for  Mrs. 
Davilow,  —  a  part  of  the  love-making  which 
Gwendolen  had  remembered  to  cite  to  her 
mother  with  perfect  accuracy. 

"  But  I  have  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Grandcourt 
would  have  behaved  quite  as  handsomely  if  you 
had  not  gone  away  to  Germany,  Gwendolen, 
and  had  been  engaged  to  him,  as  you  no  doubt 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  48 


might  have  been,  more  than  a  month  ago,"  said 
Mrs.  Gascoigne,  feeling  that  she  had  to  dis- 
charge a  duty  on  this  occasion.  "  But  now  there 
is  no  more  room  for  caprice;  indeed,  I  trust 
you  have  no  incHnation  to  any.  A  woman  has 
a  great  debt  of  gratitude  to  a  man  who  perse- 
veres in  making  her  such  an  offer.  But  no  doubt 
you  feel  properly." 

"  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  I  do,  aunt,"  said 
Gwendolen,  with  saucy  gravity.  "  I  don't  know 
everything  it  is  proper  to  feel  on  being 
engaged." 

The  Rector  patted  her  shoulder  and  smiled  as 
at  a  bit  of  innocent  naughtiness,  and  his  wife 
took  his  behaviour  as  an  indication  that  she  was 
not  to  be  displeased.  As  for  Anna,  she  kissed 
Gwendolen  and  said,  "  I  do  hope  you  will  be 
happy,"  but  then  sank  into  the  background  and 
tried  to  keep  the  tears  back  too.  In  the  late 
days  she  had  been  imagining  a  little  romance 
about  Rex,  —  how  if  he  still  longed  for  Gwen- 
dolen, her  heart  might  be  softened  by  trouble  into 
love,  so  that  they  could  by  and  by  be  married. 
And  the  romance  had  turned  to  a  prayer  that 
she,  Anna,  might  be  able  to  rejoice  like  a  good 
sister,  and  only  think  of  being  useful  in  working 
for  Gwendolen,  as  long  as  Rex  was  not  rich. 
But  now  she  wanted  grace  to  rejoice  in  some- 
thing else.  Miss  Merry  and  the  four  girls,  — 
Alice  with  the  high  shoulders.  Bertha  and  Fanny 
the  whisperers,  and  Isabel  the  listener,  —  were 
all  present  on  this  family  occasion,  when  every- 
thing seemed  appropriately  turning  to  the 
honour  and  glory  of  Gwendolen,  and  real  life 
was  as  interesting  as  "  Sir  Charles  Grandison." 


44  DANIEL  DERONDA 


The  evening  passed  chiefly  in  decisive  remarks 
from  the  Rector,  in  answer  to  conjectures  from 
the  two  elder  ladies.  According  to  him,  the  case 
was  not  one  in  which  he  could  think  it  his  duty  to 
mention  settlements :  everything  must,  and  doubt- 
less would  safely  be  left  to  Mr.  Grandcourt. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  exactly  what  sort  of 
places  Ryelands  and  Gadsmere  are,"  said  Mrs. 
Davilow. 

"  Gadsmere,  I  believe,  is  a  secondary  place," 
said  Mr.  Gascoigne;  "  but  Ryelands  I  know  to 
be  one  of  our  finest  seats.  The  park  is  exten- 
sive, and  the  woods  of  a  very  valuable  order. 
The  house  was  built  by  Inigo  Jones,  and  the 
ceilings  are  painted  in  the  Italian  style.  The 
estate  is  said  to  be  worth  twelve  thousand  a-year, 
and  there  are  two  livings,  one  a  rectory,  in  the 
gift  of  the  Grandcourts.  There  may  be  some 
burthens  on  the  land.  Still,  Mr.  Grandcourt 
was  an  only  child." 

It  would  be  most  remarkable,"  said  Mrs. 
Gascoigne,  "if  he  were  to  become  Lord  S tan- 
nery in  addition  to  everything  else.  Only  think : 
there  is  the  Grandcourt  estate,  the  Mallinger 
estate,  and  the  baronetcy,  and  the  peerage,"  — 
she  was  marking  off  the  items  on  her  fingers, 
and  paused  on  the  fourth  while  she  added,  "  but 
they  say  there  will  be  no  land  coming  to  him 
with  the  peerage."  It  seemed  a  pity  there  was 
nothing  for  the  fifth  finger. 

"  The  peerage,"  said  the  Rector,  judiciously, 
"  must  be  regarded  as  a  remote  chance.  There 
are  two  cousins  between  the  present  peer  and 
Mr.  Grandcourt.  It  is  certainly  a  serious  re- 
flection how  death  and  other  causes  do  sometimes 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  45 


concentrate  inheritances  on  one  man.  But  an 
excess  of  that  kind  is  to  be  deprecated.  To  be 
Sir  Malhnger  Grandcourt  Malhnger  —  I  sup- 
pose that  will  be  his  style  —  with  the  correspond- 
ing properties,  is  a  valuable  talent  enough  for 
any  man  to  have  committed  to  him.  Let  us  hope 
it  will  be  well  used."  . 

"  And  what  a  position  for  the  wife,  Gwen- 
dolen! "  said  Mrs.  Gascoigne;  "  a  great  respon- 
sibility indeed.  But  you  must  lose  no  time  in 
writing  to  Mrs.  Mompert,  Henry.  It  is  a  good 
thing  that  you  have  an  engagement  of  marriage 
to  offer  as  an  excuse,  else  she  might  feel  offended. 
She  is  rather  a  high  woman." 

"  I  am  rid  of  that  horror,"  thought  Gwen- 
dolen, to  whom  the  name  of  Mompert  had  be- 
come a  sort  of  Mumbo- jumbo.  She  was  very 
silent  through  the  evening,  and  that  night  could 
hardly  sleep  at  all  in  her  little  white  bed.  It  was 
a  rarity  in  her  strong  youth  to  be  wakeful ;  and 
perhaps  a  still  greater  rarity  for  her  to  be  care- 
ful that  her  mother  should  not  know  of  her  rest- 
lessness. But  her  state  of  mind  was  altogether 
new:  she  who  had  been  used  to  feel  sure  of 
herself,  and  ready  to  manage  others,  had  just 
taken  a  decisive  step  which  she  had  beforehand 
thought  that  she  would  not  take,  —  nay,  per- 
haps, was  bound  not  to  take.  She  could  not  go 
backward  now;  she  liked  a  great  deal  of  what 
lay  before  her;  and  there  was  nothing  for  her 
to  like  if  she  went  back.  But  her  resolution  was 
dogged  by  the  shadow  of  that  previous  resolve 
which  had  at  first  come  as  the  undoubting  move- 
ment of  her  whole  being.  While  she  lay  on  her 
pillow  with  wide-open  eyes,  "looking  on  dark- 


46  DANIEL  DERONDA 


ness  which  the  bhnd  do  see,"  she  was  appalled 
by  the  i4ea  that  she  was  going  to  do  what  she 
had  once  started  away  from  with  repugnance. 
It  was  new  to  her  that  a  question  of  right  or 
wrong  in  her  conduct  should  rouse  her  terror; 
she  had  known  no  compunction  that  atoning 
caresses  and  presents  could  not  lay  to  rest.  But 
here  had  come  a  moment  when  something  like 
a  new  consciousness  was  awaked.  She  seemed 
on  the  edge  of  adopting  deliberately,  as  a  notion 
for  all  the  rest  of  her  life,  what  she  had  rashly 
said  in  her  bitterness,  when  her  discovery  had 
driven  her  away  to  Leubronn,  —  that  it  did  not 
signify  what  she  did;  she  had  only  to  amuse 
herself  as  best  she  could.  That  lawlessness,  that 
casting  away  of  all  care  for  justification,  sud- 
denly frightened  her:  it  came  to  her  with  the 
shadowy  array  of  possible  calamity  behind  it, 
—  calamity  which  had  ceased  to  be  a  mere  name 
for  her;  and  all  the  infiltrated  influences  of  dis- 
regarded religious  teaching,  as  well  as  the  deeper 
impressions  of  something  awful  and  inexorable 
enveloping  her,  seemed  to  concentrate  them- 
selves in  the  vague  conception  of  avenging 
power.  The  brilliant  position  she  had  longed 
for,  the  imagined  freedom  she  would  create  for 
herself  in  marriage,  the  deliverance  from  the  dull 
insignificance  of  her  girlhood,  —  all  were  im- 
mediately before  her;  and  yet  they  had  come  to 
her  hunger  like  food  with  the  taint  of  sacrilege 
upon  it,  which  she  must  snatch  with  terror.  In 
the  darkness  and  loneliness  of  her  little  bed,  her 
more  resistant  self  could  not  act  against  the  first 
onslaught  of  dread  after  her  irrevocable  deci- 
sion.    That  unhappy-faced  woman  and  her 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  47 


children  —  Grandcourt  and  his  relations  with 
her  —  kept  repeating  themselves  in  her  imagi- 
nation like  the  clinging  memory  of  a  disgrace, 
and  gradually  obliterated  all  other  thought, 
leaving  only  the  consciousness  that  she  had  taken 
those  scenes  into  her  life.  Her  long  wakeful- 
ness seemed  a  delirium;  a  faint,  faint  light  pene- 
trated beside  the  window-curtain;  the  chillness 
increased.  She  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and 
cried,  "  Mamma!  " 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Davilow,  immediately, 
in  a  wakeful  voice. 

"  Let  me  come  to  you." 

She  soon  went  to  sleep  on  her  mother's  shoul- 
der, and  slept  on  till  late,  when,  dreaming  of 
a  lit-up  ball-room,  she  opened  her  eyes  on  her 
mother  standing  by  the  bedside  with  a  small 
packet  in  her  hand. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  wake  you,  darling,  but  I 
thought  it  better  to  give  you  this  at  once.  The 
groom  has  brought  Criterion;  he  has  come  on 
another  horse,  and  says  he  is  to  stay  here." 

Gwendolen  sat  up  in  bed  and  opened  the 
packet.  It  was  a  delicate  little  enamelled  casket, 
and  inside  was  a  splendid  diamond  ring  with  a 
letter  which  contained  a  folded  bit  of  coloured 
paper  and  these  words :  — 

Pray  wear  this  ring  when  I  come  at  twelve  in  sign  of 
our  betrothal.  I  enclose  a  check  drawn  in  the  name  of 
Mr.  Gascoigne,  for  immediate  expenses.  Of  course 
Mrs.  Davilqw  will  remain  at  OflPendene,  at  least  for 
some  time.  1  hope,  when  I  come,  you  will  have  granted 
me  an  early  day,  when  you  may  begin  to  command  me 
at  a  shorter  distance.  —  Yours  devotedly, 

H.  M.  Grandcourt. 


\ 


48  DANIEL  DERONDA 

The  check  was  for  five  hundred  pounds;  and 
Gwendolen  turned  it  towards  her  mother,  with 
the  letter. 

"How  very  kind  and  delicate!"  said  Mrs. 
Davilow,  with  much  feeling.  "  But  I  really 
should  like  better  not  to  be  dependent  on  a  son- 
in-law.  I  and  the  girls  could  get  along  very 
well." 

"  Mamma,  if  you  say  that  again,  I  wdll  not 
marry  him,"  said  Gwendolen,  angrily. 

"  My  dear  child,  I  trust  you  are  not  going 
to  marry  only  for  my  sake,"  said  Mrs.  Davilow, 
deprecatingly. 

Gwendolen  tossed  her  head  on  the  pillow  away 
from  her  mother,  and  let  the  ring  lie.  She  was 
irritated  at  this  attempt  to  take  away  a  motive. 
Perhaps  the  deeper  cause  of  her  irritation  was 
the  consciousness  that  she  was  not  going  to 
marry  solely  for  her  mamma's  sake,  —  that  she 
was  drawn  towards  the  marriage  in  ways  against 
which  stronger  reasons  than  her  mother's  renun- 
ciation were  yet  not  strong  enough  to  hinder  her. 
She  had  waked  up  to  the  signs  that  she  was 
irrevocably  engaged;  and  all  the  ugly  visions, 
the  alarms,  the  arguments  of  the  night,  must  be 
met  by  daylight,  in  which  probably  they  would 
show^  themselves  weak. 

"  What  I  long  for  is  your  happiness,  dear," 
continued  Mrs.  Davilow,  pleadingly.  "  I  will 
not  say  anything  to  vex  you.  Will  you  not  put 
on  the  ring?  " 

For  a  few  moments  Gwendolen  did  not  an- 
swer, but  her  thoughts  were  active.  At  last  she 
raised  herself  with  a  determination  to  do  as  she 
would  do  if  she  had  started  on  horseback,  and 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  49 


go  on  with  spirit,  whatever  ideas  might  be  run- 
ning in  her  head. 

"  I  thought  the  lover  always  put  on  the  be- 
trothal ring  himself,"  she  said  laughingly,  slip- 
ping the  ring  on  her  finger,  and  looking  at  it 
with  a  charming  movement  of  her  head.  "  I 
know  why  he  has  sent  it,"  she  added,  nodding  at 
her  mamma. 

"Why?" 

"He  would  rather  make  me  put  it  on  than 
ask  me  to  let  him  do  it.  Aha !  he  is  very  proud. 
But  so  am  I.  We  shall  match  each  other.  I 
should  hate  a  man  who  went  down  on  his  knees, 
and  came  fawning  on  me.  He  really  is  not 
disgusting." 

"  That  is  very  moderate  praise,  Gwen." 

"  No,  it  is  not,  for  a  man,"  said  Gwendolen, 
gayly.  "  But  now  I  must  get  up  and  dress. 
Will  you  come  and  do  my  hair,  mamma  dear," 
she  went  on,  drawing  down  her  mamma's  face 
to  caress  it  with  her  own  cheeks,  "  and  not  be 
so  naughty  any  more  as  to  talk  of  living  in 
poverty?  You  must  bear  to  be  made  com- 
fortable, even  if  you  don't  like  it.  And  Mr. 
Grandcourt  behaves  perfectly,  now,  does  he 
not?" 

"  Certainly  he  does,"  said  Mrs.  Davilow,  en- 
couraged, and  persuaded  that  after  all  Gwen- 
dolen was  fond  of  her  betrothed.  She  herself 
thought  him  a  man  whose  attentions  were  likely 
to  tell  on  a  girl's  feeling.  Suitors  must  often 
be  judged  as  words  are,  by  the  standing  and 
the  figure  they  make  in  polite  society:  it  is 
difficult  to  know  much  else  of  them.  And  all 
the  mother's  anxiety  turned,  not  on  Grand- 
voL.  xin — 4 


50  DANIEL  DERONDA 


court's  character,  but  on  Gwendolen's  mood  in 
accepting  him. 

The  mood  was  necessarily  passing  through  a 
new  phase  this  morning.  Even  in  the  hour  of 
making  her  toilet,  she  had  drawn  on  all  the 
know^ledge  she  had  for  grounds  to  justify  her 
marriage.  And  what  she  most  dwelt  on  was  the 
determination  that  when  she  was  Grandcourt's 
wife  she  would  urge  him  to  the  most  liberal 
conduct  towards  Mrs.  Glasher's  children. 

"  Of  what  use  would  it  be  to  her  that  I  should 
not  marry  him?  He  could  have  married  her  if 
he  had  liked;  but  he  did  not  like.  Perhaps  she 
is  to  blame  for  that.  There  must  be  a  great 
deal  about  her  that  I  know  nothing  of.  And 
he  must  have  been  good  to  her  in  many  ways, 
else  she  would  not  have  wanted  to  marry  him." 

But  that  last  argument  at  once  began  to  ap- 
pear doubtful.  Mrs.  Glasher  naturally  wished 
to  exclude  other  children  who  would  stand 
between  Grandcourt  and  her  own;  and  Gwen- 
dolen's comprehension  of  this  feeling  prompted 
another  way  of  reconciling  claims. 

"  Perhaps  we  shall  have  no  children.  I  hope 
we  shall  not.  And  he  might  leave  the  estate  to 
the  pretty  little  boy.  My  uncle  said  that  Mr. 
Grandcourt  could  do  as  he  liked  with  the  estates. 
Only  when  Sir  Hugo  Mallinger  dies  there  will 
be  enough  for  two." 

This  made  Mrs.  Glasher  appear  quite  unrea- 
sonable in  demanding  that  her  boy  should  be  sole 
heir;  and  the  double  property  was  a  security 
that  Grandcourt's  marriage  would  do  her  no 
wrong,  when  the  wife  was  Gwendolen  Harleth 
with  all  her  proud  resolution  not  to  be  fairly 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  51 


accused.  This  maiden  had  been  accustomed  to 
think  herself  blameless ;  other  persons  only  were 
faulty. 

It  was  striking  that  in  the  hold  which  this 
argument  of  her  doing  no  wrong  to  Mrs. 
Glasher  had  taken  on  her  mind,  her  repugnance 
to  the  idea  of  Grandcourt's  past  had  sunk  into 
a  subordinate  feeling.  The  terror  she  had  felt 
in  the  night-watches  at  over-stepping  the  border 
of  wickedness  by  doing  what  she  had  at  first 
felt  to  be  wrong,  had  dulled  any  emotions  about 
his  conduct.  She  was  thinking  of  him,  whatever 
he  might  be,  as  a  man  over  whom  she  was  going 
to  have  indefinite  power;  and  her  loving  him 
having  never  been  a  question  with  her,  any 
agreeableness  he  had  was  so  much  gain.  Poor 
Gwendolen  had  no  awe  of  unmanageable  forces 
in  the  state  of  matrimony,  but  regarded  it  as 
altogether  a  matter  of  management,  in  which 
she  would  know  how  to  act.  In  relation  to 
Grandcourt's  past  she  encouraged  new  doubts 
whether  he  were  likely  to  have  differed  much 
from  other  men;  and  she  devised  little  schemes 
for  learning  what  was  expected  of  men  in 
general. 

But  whatever  else  might  be  true  in  the  world, 
her  hair  was  dressed  sfUitably  for  riding,  and  she 
went  down  in  her  riding-habit,  to  avoid  delay 
before  getting  on  horseback.  She  wanted  to 
have  her  blood  stirred  once  more  with  the  intoxi- 
cation of  youth,  and  to  recover  the  daring  with 
which  she  had  been  used  to  think  of  her  course  in 
life.  Already  a  load  was  lifted  off  her;  for  in 
daylight  and  activity  it  was  less  oppressive  to 
have  doubts  about  her  choice,  than  to  feel  that 


52  DANIEL  DERONDA 


she  had  no  choice  but  to  endure  insignificance 
and  servitude. 

"  Go  back  and  make  yourself  look  like  a 
duchess,  mamma,"  she  said,  turning  suddenly  as 
she  was  going  downstairs.  "  Put  your  point- 
lace  over  your  head.  I  must  have  you  look  like  a 
duchess.   You  must  not  take  things  humbly." 

When  Grandcourt  raised  her  left  hand  gently 
and  looked  at  the  ring,  she  said  gravely,  "  It  was 
very  good  of  you  to  think  of  everything  and 
send  me  that  packet." 

"  You  will  tell  me  ifthere  is  anything  I  for- 
get? "  he  said,  keeping  the  hand  softly  within  his 
own.    "  I  will  do  anything  you  wish." 

"  But  I  am  very  unreasonable  in  my  wishes," 
said  Gwendolen,  smiling. 

"  Yes,  I  expect  that.   Women  always  are." 

"  Then  I  will  not  be  unreasonable,"  said 
Gwendolen,  taking  away  her  hand  and  tossing 
her  head  saucily.  "  I  will  not  be  told  that  I  am 
what  women  always  are." 

"  I  did  not  say  that,"  said  Grandcourt,  looking 
at  her  with  his  usual  gravity.  "  You  are  what 
no  other  woman  is." 

"  And  what  is  that,  pray? "  said  Gwendolen, 
moving  to  a  distance  with  a  little  air  of  menace. 

Grandcourt  made  his  pause  before  he  an- 
swered: "  You  are  the  woman  I  love." 

"  Oh,  what  nice  speeches !  "  said  Gwendolen, 
laughing.  The  sense  of  that  love  which  he  must 
once  have  given  to  another  woman  under  strange 
circumstances  was  getting  familiar. 

"  Give  me  a  nice  speech  in  return.  Say  when 
we  are  to  be  married." 

"  Not  yet.   Not  till  we  have  had  a  gallop  over 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  53 


the  downs.  I  am  so  thirsty  for  that,  I  can  think 
of  nothing  else.  I  wish  the  hunting  had  begun. 
Sunday  the  twentieth,  twenty-seventh,  Monday, 
Tuesday."  Gwendolen  was  counting  on  her  fin- 
gers with  the  prettiest  nod  while  she  looked  at 
Grandcourt,  and  at  last  swept  one  palm  over  the 
other  while  she  said  triumphantly,  "  It  will  begin 
in  ten  days!  " 

"  Let  us  be  married  in  ten  days,  then,"  said 
Grandcourt,  "  and  we  shall  not  be  bored  about 
the  stables." 

"  What  do  women  always  say  in  answer  to 
that?  "  said  Gwendolen,  mischievously. 

"  They  agree  to  it,"  said  the  lover,  rather  off 
his  guard. 

"  Then  I  will  not!  "  said  Gwendolen,  taking 
up  her  gauntlets  and  putting  them  on,  while  she 
kept  her  eyes  on  him  with  gathering  fun  in 
them. 

The  scene  was  pleasant  on  both  sides.  A 
cruder  lover  would  have  lost  the  view  of  her 
pretty  ways  and  attitudes,  and  spoiled  all  by 
stupid  attempts  at  caresses,  utterly  destructive 
of  drama.  Grandcourt  preferred  the  drama; 
and  Gwendolen,  left  at  ease,  found  her  spirits 
rising  continually  as  she  played  at  reigning. 
Perhaps  if  Klesmer  had  seen  more  of  her  in  this 
unconscious  kind  of  acting,  instead  of  when  she 
was  trying  to  be  theatrical,  he  might  have  rated 
her  chance  higher. 

When  they  had  had  a  glorious  gallop,  how- 
ever, she  was  in  a  state  of  exhilaration  that  dis- 
posed her  to  think  well  of  hastening  the  mar- 
riage which  would  make  her  life  all  of  a  piece 
with  this  splendid  kind  of  enjoyment.  She 


54  DANIEL  DERONDA 


would  not  debate  any  more  about  an  act  to  which 
she  had  committed  herself;  and  she  consented 
to  fix  the  wedding  on  that  day  three  weeks, 
notwithstanding  the  difficulty  of  fulfilling  the 
customary  laws  of  the  trousseau. 

Lush,  of  course,  was  made  aware  of  the  en- 
gagement by  abundant  signs,  without  being 
formally  told.  But  he  expected  some  communi- 
cation as  a  consequence  of  it,  and  after  a  few 
days  he  became  rather  impatient  under  Grand- 
court's  silence,  feeling  sure  that  the  change 
would  affect  his  personal  prospects,  and  wishing 
to  know  exactly  how.  His  tactics  no  longer  in- 
cluded any  opposition,  —  which  he  did  not  love 
for  its  own  sake.  He  might  easily  cause  Grand- 
court  a  great  deal  of  annoyance,  but  it  would 
be  to  his  own  injury,  and  to  create  annoyance 
was  not  a  motive  with  him.  Miss  Gwendolen  he 
would  certainly  not  have  been  sorry  to  frustrate 
a  little,,  but  —  after  all,  there  was  no  knowing 
what  would  come.  It  was  nothing  new  that 
Grandcourt  should  show  a  perverse  wilfulness; 
yet  in  his  freak  about  this  girl  he  struck  Lush 
rather  newly  as  something  like  a  man  who 
was  fey  —  led  on  by  an  ominous  fatality;  and 
that  one  born  to  his  fortune  should  make  a 
worse  business  of  his  life  than  was  necessary, 
seemed  really  pitiable.  Having  protested 
against  the  marriage.  Lush  had  a  second-sight 
for  its  evil  consequences.  Grandcourt  had  been 
taking  the  pains  to  write  letters  and  give  orders 
himself  instead  of  employing  Lush;  and  ap- 
peared to  be  ignoring  his  usefulness,  even 
choosing,  against  the  habit  of  years,  to  break- 
fast alone  in  his  dressing-room.    But  a  tete-a- 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  55 


tete  was  not  to  be  avoided  in  a  house  empty  of 
guests ;  and  Lush  hastened  to  use  an  opportun- 
ity of  saying,  —  it  was  one  day  after  dinner,  for 
there  were  difficulties  in  Grandcourt's  dining  at 
Offendene,  — 

"  And  when  is  the  marriage  to  take  place?  " 

Grandcourt,  who  drank  little  wine,  had  left 
the  table  and  was  lounging,  while  he  smoked,  in 
an  easy-chair  near  the  hearth,  where  a  fire  of  oak 
boughs  was  gaping  to  its  glowing  depths,  and 
edging  them  with  a  delicate  tint  of  ashes  delight- 
ful to  behold.  The  chair  of  red-brown  velvet 
brocade  was  a  becoming  background  for  his  pale- 
tinted  well-cut  features  and  exquisite  long 
hands:  omitting  the  cigar,  you  might  have 
imagined  him  a  portrait  by  Moroni,  who  would 
have  rendered  wonderfully  the  impenetrable 
gaze  and  air  of  distinction;  and  a  portrait  by 
that  great  master  would  haA^e  been  quite  as  lively 
a  companion  as  Grandcourt  was  disposed  to  be. 
But  he  answered  without  unusual  delay,  — 

"  On  the  tenth." 

"  I  suppose  you  intend  to  remain  here." 

"  We  shall  go  to  Ryelands  for  a  little  while; 
but  we  shall  return  here  for  the  sake  of  the 
hunting." 

After  this  word  there  was  the  languid  inarticu- 
late sound  frequent  with  Grandcourt  when  he 
meant  to  continue  speaking,  and  Lush  waited  for 
something  more.  Nothing  came,  and  he  was  go- 
ing to  put  another  question,  when  the  inarticu- 
late sound  began  again  and  introduced  the 
mildly  uttered  suggestion,  — 

"  You  had  better  make  some  new  arrange- 
ment for  yourself." 


5(5  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  What!  I  am  to  cut  and  run?  "  said  Lush, 
prepared  to  be  good-tempered  on  the  occasion. 

"  Something  of  that  kind." 

"  The  bride  objects  to  me.  I  hope  she  will 
make  up  to  you  for  the  want  of  my  services." 

"  I  can't  help  your  being  so  damnably  disa- 
greeable to  women,"  said  Grandcourt,  in  sooth- 
ing apology. 

"  To  one  woman,  if  you  please." 

"  It  makes  no  difference,  since  she  is  the  one 
in  question." 

"  I  suppose  I  am  not  to  be  turned  adrift  after 
fifteen  years  without  some  provision." 

"  You  must  have  saved  something  out  of  me." 

"  Deuced  little.  I  have  often  saved  something 
for  you." 

"  You  can  have  three  hundred  a-year.  But 
you  must  live  in  town  and  be  ready  to  look  after 
things  for  me  when  I  want  you.  I  shall  be 
rather  hard  up." 

"If  you  are  not  going  to  be  at  Ry  elands  this 
winter,  I  might  run  down  there  and  let  you  know 
how  Swinton  goes  on." 

"  If  you  like.  I  don't  care  a  toss  where  you 
are,  so  that  you  keep  out  of  sight." 

"  Much  obliged,"  said  Lush,  able  to  take  the 
affair  more  easily  than  he  had  expected.  He  was 
supported  by  the  secret  belief  that  he  should  by 
and  by  be  wanted  as  much  as  ever. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  not  object  to  packing  up 
as  soon  as  possible,"  said  Grandcourt.  "  The 
Torringtons  are  coming,  and  Miss  Harleth  will 
be  riding  over  here." 

"  With  all  my  heart.  Can't  I  be  of  use  in 
going  to  Gadsmere? " 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  57 


"  No.   I  am  going  myself." 

"  About  yom-  being  rather  hard  up.  Have 
you  thought  of  that  plan  —  " 

"  Just  leave  me  alone,  will  you?  "  said  Grand- 
court,  in  his  lowest  audible  tone,  tossing  his  cigar 
into  the  fire,  and  rising  to  walk  away. 

He  spent  the  evening  in  the  solitude  of  the 
smaller  drawing-room,  where,  with  various  new 
publications  on  the  table,  of  the  kind  a  gentle- 
man may  like  to  have  at  hand  without  touching, 
he  employed  himself  (as  a  philosopher  might 
have  done)  in  sitting  meditatively  on  a  sofa  and 
abstaining  from  literature,  —  political,  comic, 
cynical,  or  romantic.  In  this  way  hours  may  pass 
surprisingly  soon,  without  the  arduous  invisible 
chase  of  philosophy;  not  from  love  of  thought, 
but  from  hatred  of  effort,  —  from  a  state  of  the 
inward  world,  something  like  premature  age, 
where  the  need  for  action  lapses  into  a  mere 
image  of  what  has  been,  is,  and  may  or  might  be ; 
where  impulse  is  born  and  dies  in  a  phantasmal 
world,  pausing  in  rejection  even  of  a  shadowy 
fulfilment.  That  is  a  condition  which  often 
comes  with  whitening  hair;  and  sometimes,  too, 
an  intense  obstinacy  and  tenacity  of  rule,  like 
the  main  trunk  of  an  exorbitant  egoism,  con- 
spicuous in  proportion  as  the  varied  susceptibili- 
ties of  younger  years  are  stripped  away. 

But  Grand.court's  hair,  though  he  had  not 
much  of  it,  was  of  a  fine  sunny  blond,  and  his 
moods  were  not  entirely  to  be  explained  as  ebb- 
ing energy.  We  mortals  have  a  strange  spirit- 
ual chemistry  going  on  within  us,  so  that  a  lazy 
stagnation  or  even  a  cottony  milkiness  may  be 
preparing  one  knows  not  what  biting  or  explo- 


58  DANIEL  DERONDA 


sive  material.  The  navvy  waking  from  sleep  and 
without  malice  heaving  a  stone  to  crush  the  life 
out  of  his  still  sleeping  comrade,  is  understood 
to  lack  the  trained  motive  which  makes  a  char- 
acter fairly  calculable  in  its  actions;  but  by  a 
roundabout  course  even  a  gentleman  may  make 
of  himself  a  chancy  personage,  raising  an  un- 
certainty as  to  what  he  may  do  next,  which  sadly 
spoils  companionship. 

Grandcourt's  thoughts  this  evening  were  like 
the  circlets  one  sees  in  a  dark  pool  continually 
dying  out  and  continually  started  again  by  some 
impulse  from  below  the  surface.  The  deeper 
central  impulse  came  from  the  image  of  Gwen- 
dolen; but  the  thoughts  it  stirred  would  be 
imperfectly  illustrated  by  a  reference  to  the 
amatory  poets  of  all  ages.  It  was  characteris- 
tic that  he  got  none  of  his  satisfaction  from  the 
belief  that  Gwendolen  was  in  love  with  him; 
and  that  love  had  overcome  the  jealous  resent- 
ment which  had  made  her  run  away  from  him. 
On  the  contrary,  he  believed  that  this  girl  was 
rather  exceptional  in  the  fact  that,  in  spite  of 
his  assiduous  attention  to  her,  she  was  not  in  love 
with  him;  and  it  seemed  to  him  very  likely  that 
if  it  had  not  been  for  the  sudden  poverty  which 
had  come  over  her  family,  she  would  not  have 
accepted  him.  From  the  very  first  there  had 
been  an  exasperating  fascination  in  the  tricksi- 
ness  with  which  she  had  —  not  met  his  advances, 
but  —  wheeled  away  from  them.  She  had  been 
brought  to  accept  him  in  spite  of  everything,  — 
brought  to  kneel  down  like  a  horse  under  train- 
ing for  the  arena,  though  she  might  have  an 
objection  to  it  all  the  while.    On  the  whole, 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  59 


Grandcourt  got  more  pleasure  out  of  this  no- 
tion than  he  could  have  done  out  of  winning 
a  girl  of  whom  he  was  sure  that  she  had  a 
strong  inclination  for  him  personally.  And  yet 
this  pleasure  in  mastering  reluctance  flourished 
along  with  the  habitual  persuasion  that  no 
woman  whom  he  favoured  could  be  quite  indif- 
ferent to  his  personal  influence;  and  it  seemed 
to  him  not  unlikely  that  by  and  by  Gwendolen 
might  be  more  enamoured  of  him  than  he  of 
her.  In  any  case  she  would  have  to  submit; 
and  he  enjoyed  thinking  of  her  as  his  future 
wife,  whose  pride  and  spirit  were  suited  to  com- 
mand every  one  but  himself.  He  had  no  taste 
for  a  woman  who  was  all  tenderness  to  him,  full 
of  petitioning  solicitude  and  willing  obedience. 
He  meant  to  be  master  of  a  woman  who  would 
have  liked  to  master  him,  and  who  perhaps  would 
have  been  capable  of  mastering  another  man. 

Lush,  having  failed  in  his  attempted  reminder 
to  Grandcourt,  thought  it  well  to  communicate 
with  Sir  Hugo,  in  whom,  as  a  man  having  per- 
haps interest  enough  to  command  the  bestowal 
of  some  place  where  the  work  was  light,  gentle- 
manly, and  not  ill-paid,  he  was  anxious  to  cul- 
tivate a  sense  of  friendly  obligation,  not  feeling 
at  all  secure  against  the  future  need  of  such  a 
place.  He  wrote  the  following  letter,  and  ad- 
dressed it  to  Park  Lane,  whither  he  knew  the 
family  had  returned  from  Leubronn:  — 

My  dear  Sir  Hugo,  —  Since  we  came  home  the 
marriage  has  been  absolutely  decided  on,  and  is  to 
take  place  in  less  than  three  weeks.  It  is  so  far  the 
worse  for  him  that  her  mother  has  lately  lost  all  her 
fortune,  and  he  will  have  to  find  supplies.  Grandcourt, 


60  DANIEL  DERONDA 


I  know,  is  feeling  the  want  of  cash;  and  unless  some 
other  plan  is  resorted  to,  he  will  be  raising  money 
in  a  foolish  way.  I  am  going  to  leave  Diplow  imme- 
diately, and  I  shall  not  be  able  to  start  the  topic. 
What  I  should  advise  is,  that  Mr.  Deronda,  who  I 
know  has  your  confidence,  should  propose  to  come  and 
pay  a  short  visit  here,  according  to  invitation  (there 
are  going  to  be  other  people  in  the  house),  and  that 
you  should  put  him  fully  in  possession  of  your  wishes 
and  the  possible  extent  of  your  offer.  Then,  that 
he  should  introduce  the  subject  to  Grandcourt  so  as 
not  to  imply  that  you  suspect  any  particular  want  of 
money  on  his  part,  but  only  that  there  is  a  strong 
wish  on  yours.  What  I  have  formerly  said  to  him 
has  been  in  the  way  of  a  conjecture  that  you  might  be 
willing  to  give  a  good  sum  for  his  chance  of  Diplow ; 
but  if  Mr.  Deronda  came  armed  with  a  definite  offer, 
that  would  take  another  sort  of  hold.  Ten  to  one  he 
will  not  close  for  some  time  to  come ;  but  the  proposal 
will  have  got  a  stronger  lodgment  in  his  mind;  and 
though  at  present  he  has  a  great  notion  of  the  hunt- 
ing here,  I  see  a  likelihood,  under  the  circumstances, 
that  he  will  get  a  distaste  for  the  neighbourhood,  and 
there  will  be  the  notion  of  the  money  sticking  by  him 
without  being  urged.  I  would  bet  on  your  ultimate 
success.  As  I  am  not  to  be  exiled  to  Siberia,  but  am 
to  be  within  call,  it  is  possible  that,  by  and  by,  I  may 
be  of  more  service  to  you.  But  at  present  I  can  think 
of  no  medium  so  good  as  Mr.  Deronda.  Nothing  puts 
Grandcourt  in  worse  humour  than  having  the  lawyers 
thrust  their  papers  under  his  nose  uninvited. 

Trusting  that  your  visit  to  Leubronn  has  put  you 
in  excellent  condition  for  the  winter,  I  remain,  my  dear 
Sir  Hugo,  yours  very  faithfully, 

Thomas  Cranmer  Lush. 

Sir  Hugo,  having  received  this  letter  at  break- 
fast, handed  it  to  Deronda,  who,  though  he  had 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  61 


chambers  in  town,  was  somehow  hardly  ever  in 
them,  Sir  Hugo  not  being  contented  without 
him.  The  chatty  baronet  would  have  liked  a 
young  companion  even  if  there  had  been  no 
peculiar  reasons  for  attachment  between  them: 
one  with  a  fine  harmonious  unspoiled  face  fitted 
to  keep  up  a  cheerful  view  of  posterity  and  in- 
heritance generally,  notwithstanding  particular 
disappointments ;  and  his  affection  for  Deronda 
was  not  diminished  by  the  deep-lying  though 
not  obtrusive  difference  in  their  notions  and 
tastes.  Perhaps  it  was  all  the  stronger;  acting 
as  the  same  sort  of  difference  does  between  a 
man  and  a  woman  in  giving  a  piquancy  to  the 
attachment  which  subsists  in  spite  of  it.  Sir 
Hugo  did  not  think  unapprovingly  of  himself; 
but  he  looked  at  men  and  society  from  a  liberal- 
menagerie  point  of  view,  and  he  had  a  certain 
pride  in  Deronda's  differing  from  him,  which, 
if  it  had  found  voice,  might  have  said,  —  "  You 
see  this  fine  young  fellow  —  not  such  as  you  see 
every  day,  is  he?  —  he  belongs  to  me  in  a  sort 
of  way,  I  brought  him  up  from  a  child;  but  you 
would  not  ticket  him  off  easily,  he  has  notions 
of  his  own,  and  he 's  as  far  as  the  poles  asunder 
from  what  I  was  at  his  age."  This  state  of 
feeling  was  kept  up  by  the  mental  balance  in 
Deronda,  who  was  moved  by  an  affectionateness 
such  as  we  are  apt  to  call  feminine,  disposing 
him  to  yield  in  ordinary  details,  while  he  had 
a  certain  inflexibility  of  judgment  and  inde- 
pendence of  opinion,  held  to  be  rightfully 
masculine. 

When  he  had  read  the  letter,  he  returned  it 
without    speaking,    inwardly   wincing  under 


62 


DANIEL  DERONDA 


Lush's  mode  of  attributing  a  neutral  usefulness 
to  him  in  the  family  affairs. 

"  What  do  you  say,  Dan?  It  would  be  pleas- 
ant enough  for  you.  You  have  not  seen  the 
place  for  a  good  many  years  now,  and  you  might 
have  a  famous  run  with  the  harriers  if  you  went 
down  next  week,"  said  Sir  Hugo. 

"  I  should  not  go  on  that  account,"  said 
Deronda,  buttering  his  bread  attentively.  He 
had  an  objection  to  this  transparent  kind  of 
persuasiveness,  which  all  intelligent  animals  are 
seen  to  treat  with  indifference.  If  he  went  to 
Diplow,  he  should  be  doing  something  disagree- 
able to  oblige  Sir  Hugo. 

"  I  think  Lush's  notion  is  a  good  one,  and  it 
would  be  a  pity  to  lose  the  occasion." 

"  That  is  a  different  matter,  —  if  you  think 
my  going  of  importance  to  your  object,"  said 
Deronda,  still  with  that  aloofness  of  manner 
which  iniplied  some  suppression.  He  knew  that 
the  baronet  had  set  his  heart  on  the  affair. 

"  Why,  you  will  see  the  fair  gambler,  the  Leu- 
bronn  Diana,  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  said  Sir 
Hugo,  gayly.  "  We  shall  have  to  invite  her 
to  the  Abbey  when  they  are  married,  Louisa," 
he  added,  turning  to  Lady  Mallinger,  as  if  she 
too  had  read  the  letter. 

"  I  cannot  conceive  whom  you  mean,"  said 
Lady  Mallinger,  w^ho  in  fact  had  not  been  listen- 
ing, her  mind  having  been  taken  up  with  her 
first  sips  of  coffee,  the  objectionable  cuff  of  her 
sleeve,  and  the  necessity  of  carrying  Theresa  to 
the  dentist,  —  innocent  and  partly  laudable  pre- 
occupations, as  the  gentle  lady's  usually  were. 
Should  her  appearance  be  inquired  after,  let  it 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  63 


be  said  that  she  had  reddish  blond  hair  (the  hair 
of  the  period),  a  small  Roman  nose,  rather 
prominent  blue  eyes  and  delicate  eyelids,  with 
a  figure  which  her  thinner  friends  called  fat,  her 
hands  showing  curves  and  dimples  like  a  mag- 
ftified  baby's. 

"  I  mean  that  Grandcourt  is  going  to  marry 
the  girl  you  saw  at  Leubronn  —  don't  you  re- 
member her?  —  the  Miss  Harleth  who  used  to 
play  at  roulette." 

"  Dear  me!   Is  that  a  good  match  for  him?  " 

"  That  depends  on  the  sort  of  goodness  he 
wants,"  said  Sir  Hugo,  smiling.  "  However, 
she  and  her  friends  have  nothing,  and  she  will 
bring  him  expenses.  It 's  a  good  match  for  my 
purposes,  because  if  I  am  willing  to  fork  out 
a  sum  of  money,  he  may  be  willing  to  give  up 
his  chance  of  Diplow,  so  that  we  shall  have  it 
out  and  out,  and  when  I  die  you  will  have  the 
consolation  of  going  to  the  place  you  would  like 
to  go  to  —  wherever  I  may  go." 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  talk  of  dying  in  that 
light  way,  dear." 

"  It 's  rather  a  heavy  way,  Lou,  for  I  shall 
have  to  pay  a  heavy  sum,  —  forty  thousand,  at 
least." 

''But  why  are  we  to  invite  them  to  the 
Abbey?  "  said  Lady  Mallinger.  "  I  do  not  like 
women  who  gamble,  like  Lady  Cragstone." 

"  Oh,  you  will  not  mind  her  for  a  week.  Be- 
sides, she  is  not  like  Lady  Cragstone  because 
she  gambled  a  little,  any  more  than  I  am  like 
a  broker  because  I 'm  a  Whig.  I  want  to  keep 
Grandcourt  in  good  humour,  and  to  let  him  see 
plenty  of  this  place,  that  he  may  think  the  less 


64  DANIEL  DERONDA 


of  Diplow.  I  don't  know  yet  whether  I  shall 
get  him  to  meet  me  in  this  matter.  And  if  Dan 
were  to  go  over  on  a  visit  there,  he  might  hold 
out  the  bait  to  him.  It  would  be  doing  me  a 
great  service."    This  was  meant  for  Deronda. 

"  Daniel  is  not  fond  of  Mr.  Grandcourt,  1 
think,  is  he?  "  said  Lady  Mallinger,  looking  at 
Deronda  inquiringly. 

There  is  no  avoiding  everybody  one  does  n't 
happen  to  be  fond  of,"  said  Deronda.  "  I  will 
go  to  Diplow  —  I  don't  know  that  I  have  any- 
thing better  to  do  —  since  Sir  Hugo  wishes  it." 

"That's  a  trump!"  said  Sir  Hugo,  well 
pleased.  "  And  if  you  don't  find  it  very  pleas- 
ant, it 's  so  much  experience.  Nothing  used  to 
come  amiss  to  me  when  I  was  young.  You  must 
see  men  and  manners." 

"  Yes;  but  I  have  seen  that  man,  and  some- 
thing of  his  manners  too,"  said  Deronda. 

"  Not  nice  manners,  I  think,"  said  Lady 
Mallinger. 

"  Well,  you  see  they  succeed  with  your  sex," 
said  Sir  Hugo,  provokingly.  "  And  he  was  an 
uncommon  good-looking  fellow  when  he  was  two 
or  three  and  twenty  —  like  his  father.  He 
does  n't  take  after  his  father  in  marrying  the 
heiress,  though.  If  he  had  got  Miss  Arrow- 
point  and  my  land  too,  confound  him,  he  would 
have  had  a  fine  principality." 

Deronda,  in  anticipating  the  projected  visit, 
felt  less  disinclination  than  when  consenting  to 
it.  The  story  of  that  girl's  marriage  did  interest 
him:  what  he  had  heard  through  Lush  of  her 
having  run  away  from  the  suit  of  the  man  she 
was  now  going  to  take  as  a  husband,  had  thrown 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  65 


a  new  sort  of  light  on  her  gambhng ;  and  it  was 
probably  the  transition  from  that  favoured 
worldliness  into  poverty  which  had  urged  her 
acceptance  where  she  must  in  some  way  have 
felt  repulsion.  All  this  implied  a  nature  liable 
to  difficulty  and  struggle,  —  elements  of  life 
which  had  a  predominant  attraction  for  his  sym- 
pathy, due  perhaps  to  his  early  pain  in  dwelling 
on  the  conjectured  story  of  his  own  existence. 
Persons  attracted  him,  as  Hans  Meyrick  had 
done,  in  proportion  to  the  possibility  of  his  de- 
fending them,  rescuing  them,  telling  upon  their 
lives  with  some  sort  of  redeeming  influence; 
and  he  had  to  resist  an  inclination,  easily  ac- 
counted for,  to  withdraw  coldly  from  the  for- 
tunate. But  in  the  movement  which  had  led 
him  to  repurchase  Gwendolen's  necklace  for  her, 
and  which  was  at  work  in  him  still,  there  was 
something  beyond  his  habitual  compassionate 
fervour,  —  something  due  to  the  fascination  of 
her  womanhood.  He  was  very  open  to  that  sort 
of  charm,  and  mingled  it  with  the  consciously 
Utopian  pictures  of  his  own  future;  yet  any 
one  able  to  trace  the  folds  of  his  character  might 
have  conceived  that  he  would  be  more  likely  than 
many  less  passionate  men  to  love  a  woman  with- 
out telling  her  of  it.  Sprinkle  food  before  a 
delicate-eared  bird:  there  is  nothing  he  would 
more  willingly  take,  yet  he  keeps  aloof,  because 
of  his  sensibility  to  checks  which  to  you  are  im- 
perceptible. And  one  man  differs  from  another, 
as  we  all  differ  from  the  Bosjesman,  in  a  sensi- 
bility to  checks,  that  come  from  variety  of  needs, 
spiritual  or  other.  It  seemed  to  foreshadow  that 
capability  of  reticence  in  Deronda  that  his 

VOL.  XIII  —  5 


66  DANIEL  DERONDA 


imagination  was  much  occupied  with  two 
women,  to  neither  of  whom  would  he  have  held 
it  possible  that  he  should  ever  make  love.  Hans 
Meyrick  had  laughed  at  him  for  having  some- 
thing of  the  knight-errant  in  his  disposition; 
and  he  would  have  found  his  proof  if  he  had 
known  what  was  just  novf  going  on  in  De- 
ronda's  mind  about  Mirah  and  Gwendolen. 

Deronda  wrote  without  delay  to  announce  the 
visit  to  Diplow,  and  received  in  reply  a  polite 
assurance  that  his  coming  would  give  great 
pleasure.  That  was  not  altogether  untrue. 
Grandcourt  thought  it  probable  that  the  visit 
was  prompted  by  Sir  Hugo's  desire  to  court 
him  for  a  purpose  which  he  did  not  make  up 
his  mind  to  resist ;  and  it  was  not  a  disagreeable 
idea  to  him  that  this  fine  fellow,  whom  he  be- 
lieved to  be  his  cousin  under  the  rose,  would 
witness,  perhaps  with  some  jealousy,  Henleigh 
Mallinger  Grandcourt  play  the  commanding 
part  of  betrothed  lover  to  a  splendid  girl  whom 
the  cousin  had  already  looked  at  with  admira- 
tion. 

Grandcourt  himself  was  not  jealous  of  any- 
thing unless  it  threatened  his  mastery,  —  which 
he  did  not  think  himself  likely  to  lose. 


CHAPTER  II 


Surely  whoever  speaks  to  me  in  the  right  voice, 

him  or  her  I  shall  follow, 
As  the  water  follows  the  moon,  silently, 

with  fluid  steps  an3rwhere  around  the  globe. 

Walt  Whitman. 

"IV  TOW  my  cousins  are  at  Diplow,"  said 
I  Grandcourt,  "  will  you  go  there?  —  to- 
morrow? The  carriage  shall  come  for 
Mrs.  Davilow.  You  can  tell  me  what  you 
would  like  done  in  the  rooms.  Things  must 
be  put  in  decent  order  while  we  are  away  at 
Ry elands.    And  to-morrow  is  the  only  day." 

He  was  sitting  sideways  on  a  sofa  in  the 
drawing-room  at  Offendene,  one  hand  and 
elbow  resting  on  the  back,  and  the  other  hand 
thrust  between  his  crossed  knees  —  in  the  atti- 
tude of  a  man  who  is  much  interested  in  watch- 
ing the  person  next  to  him.  Gwendolen,  who  had 
always  disliked  needle-work,  had  taken  to  it  with 
apparent  zeal  since  her  engagement,  and  now 
held  a  piece  of  white  embroidery  which  on  exam- 
ination would  have  shown  many  false  stitches. 
During  the  last  eight  or  nine  days  their  hours 
had  been  chiefly  spent  on  horseback,  but  some 
margin  had  always  been  left  for  this  more  dif- 
ficult sort  of  companionship,  which,  however, 
Gwendolen  had  not  found  disagreeable.  She 
was  very  well  satisfied  with  Grandcourt.  His 
answers  to  her  lively  questions  about  what  he 
had  seen  and  done  in  his  life,  bore  drawling 
very  well.    From  the  first  she  had  noticed  that 


68  DANIEL  DERONDA 


he  knew  what  to  say;  and  she  was  constantly 
feehng  not  only  that  he  had  nothing  of  the 
fool  in  his  composition,  but  that  by  some  subtle 
means  he  communicated  to  her  the  impression 
that  all  the  folly  lay  with  other  people,  who  did 
what  he  did  not  care  to  do.  A  man  who  seems 
to  have  been  able  to  command  the  best,  has  a 
sovereign  power  of  depreciation.  Then  Grand- 
court's  behaviour  as  a  lover  had  hardly  at  all 
passed  the  limit  of  an  amorous  homage  which 
was  inobtrusive  as  a  wafted  odour  of  roses,  and 
spent  all  its  effect  in  a  gratified  vanity.  One 
day,  indeed,  he  had  kissed,  not  her  cheek,  but 
her  neck  a  little  below  her  ear ;  and  Gwendolen, 
taken  by  surprise,  had  started  up  with  a  marked 
agitation  which  made  him  rise  too,  and  say,  "  I 
beg  your  pardon  —  did  I  annoy  you?  "  "  Oh, 
it  was  nothing,"  said  Gwendolen,  rather  afraid 
of  herself,  "  only  I  cannot  bear  —  to  be  kissed 
under  my  ear."  She  sat  down  again  with  a 
little  playful  laugh,  but  all  the  while  she  felt 
her  heart  beating  with  a  vague  fear:  she  was 
no  longer  at  liberty  to  flout  him  as  she  had 
flouted  poor  Rex.  Her  agitation  seemed  not 
uncomplimentary,  and  he  had  been  contented 
not  to  transgress  again. 

To-day  a  slight  rain  hindered  riding;  but  to 
compensate,  a  package  had  come  from  London, 
and  Mrs.  Davilow  had  just  left  the  room  after 
bringing  in  for  admiration  the  beautiful  things 
(of  Grandcourt's  ordering)  which  lay  scattered 
about  on  the  tables.  Gwendolen  was  just  then 
enjoying  the  scenery  of  her  life.  She  let  her 
hands  fall  on  her  lap,  and  said  with  a  pretty 
air  of  perversity,  — 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  69 


"  Why  is  to-morrow  the  only  day?  " 
"  Because  the  next  day  is  the  first  with  the 
hounds,"  said  Grandcourt. 
"  And  after  that?  " 

"  After  that  I  must  go  away  for  a  couple  of 
days  —  it 's  a  bore  —  but  I  shall  go  one  day 
and  come  back  the  next."  Grandcourt  noticed 
a  change  in  her  face,  and  releasing  his  hand 
from  under  his  knees,  he  laid  it  on  hers,  and 
said,  "  You  object  to  my  going  away?  " 

"It  is  no  use  objecting,"  said  Gwendolen, 
coldly.  She  was  resisting  to  the  utmost  her 
temptation  to  tell  him  that  she  suspected  to 
whom  he  w^as  going  —  and  the  temptation  to 
make  a  clean  breast,  speaking  without  restraint. 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  said  Grandcourt,  enfolding  her 
hand.  "  I  will  put  off  going.  And  I  will  travel 
at  night,  so  as  only  to  be  away  one  day."  He 
thought  that  he  knew  the  reason  of  what  he 
inwardly  called  this  bit  of  temper,  and  she  was 
particularly  fascinating  to  him  at  this  moment. 

"  Then  don't  put  off  going,  but  travel  at 
night,"  said  Gwendolen,  feeling  that  she  could 
command  him,  and  finding  in  this  peremptori- 
ness  a  small  outlet  for  her  irritation. 

"  Then  you  will  go  to  Diplow,  to-morrow?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  if  you  wish  it,"  said  Gwendolen,  in 
a  high  tone  of  careless  assent.  Her  concentra- 
tion in  other  feelings  had  really  hindered  her 
from  taking  notice  that  her  hand  was  being 
held. 

"  How  you  treat  us  poor  devils  of  men!  "  said 
Grandcourt,  lowering  his  tone.  "  We  are  al- 
ways getting  the  worst  of  it." 

''Are  you?  "  said  Gwendolen,  in  a  tone  of 


70  DANIEL  DERONDA 


inquiry,  looking  at  him  more  naively  than  usual. 
She  longed  to  believe  this  coromonplace  badi- 
nage as  the  serious  truth  about  her  lover:  in 
that  case  she,  too,  was  justified.  If  she  knew 
everything,  Mrs.  Glasher  would  appear  more 
blamable  than  Grandcourt.  ''Are  you  always 
getting  the  worst?  " 

"  Yes.  Are  you  as  kind  to  me  as  I  am  to 
you?  "  said  Grandcourt,  looking  into  her  eyes 
with  his  narrow  gaze. 

Gwendolen  felt  herself  stricken.  She  was 
conscious  of  having  received  so  much  that  her 
sense  of  command  was  checked,  and  sank  away 
in  the  perception  that,  look  around  her  as  she 
might,  she  could  not  turn  back:  it  was  as  if 
she  had  consented  to  mount  a  chariot  where 
another  held  the  reins;  and  it  was  not  in  her 
nature  to  leap  out  in  the  eyes  of  the  world. 
She  had  not  consented  in  ignorance,  and  all  she 
could  say  now  would  be  a  confession  that  she 
had  not  been  ignorant.  Her  right  to  explana- 
tion was  gone.  All  she  had  to  do  now  was  to 
adjust  herself,  so  that  the  spikes  of  that  unwill- 
ing penance  which  conscience  imposed  should  not 
gall  her.  With  a  sort  of  mental  shiver,  she 
resolutely  changed  her  mental  attitude.  There 
had  been  a  little  pause,  during  which  she  had 
not  turned  away  her  eyes;  and  with  a  sudden 
break  into  a  smile,  she  said,  — 

"  If  I  were  as  kind  to  you  as  you  are  to  me, 
that  would  spoil  your  generosity;  it  would  no 
longer  be  as  great  as  it  could  be  —  and  it  is 
that  now." 

"  Then  I  am  not  to  ask  for  one  kiss,"  said 
Grandcourt,  contented  to  pay  a  large  price  for 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  71 


this  new  kind  of  love-making,  which  introduced 
marriage  by  the  finest  contrast. 

"Not  one!"  said  Gwendolen,  getting  saucy, 
and  nodding  at  him  defiantly. 

He  lifted  her  little  left  hand  to  his  lips,  and 
then  released  it  respectfully.  Clearly  it  was 
faint  praise  to  say  of  him  that  he  was  not  dis- 
gusting :  he  was  almost  charming ;  and  she  felt 
at  this  moment  that  it  was  not  likely  she  could 
ever  have  loved  another  man  better  than  this 
one.  His  reticence  gave  her  some  inexplicable, 
delightful  consciousness. 

"  Apropos,"  she  said,  taking  up  her  work 
again,  "  is  there  any  one  besides  Captain  and 
Mrs.  Torrington  at  Diplow?  —  or  do  you  leave 
them  tete-a-tete?  I  suppose  he  converses  in 
cigars,  and  she  answers  with  her  chignon." 

"  She  has  a  sister  with  her,"  said  Grandcourt, 
with  his  shadow  of  a  smile,  "  and  there  are 
two  men  besides,  —  one  of  them  you  know,  I 
believe." 

"  Ah,  then,  I  have  a  poor  opinion  of  him," 
said  Gwendolen,  shaking  her  head. 

"  You  saw  him  at  Leubronn,  —  young  De- 
ronda,  —  a  young  fellow  with  the  Mallingers." 

Gwendolen  felt  as  if  her  heart  were  making 
a  sudden  gambol;  and  her  fingers,  which  tried 
to  keep  a  firm  hold  on  her  work,  got  cold. 

"  I  never  spoke  to  him,"  she  said,  dreading 
any  discernible  change  in  herself.  "Is  he  not 
disagreeable?  " 

"  No,  not  particularly,"  said  Grandcourt,  in 
his  most  languid  way.  "  He  thinks  a  little  too 
much  of  himself.  I  thought  he  had  been  in- 
troduced to  you." 


72  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  No.  Some  one  told  me  his  name  the  even- 
ing before  I  came  away;  that  was  all.  What 
is  he?  " 

"  A  sort  of  ward  of  Sir  Hugo  Mallinger's. 
Nothing  of  any  consequence." 

"Oh,  poor  creature!  How  very  unpleasant 
for  him!"  said  Gwendolen,  speaking  from  the 
lip,  and  not  meaning  any  sarcasm.  "  I  wonder 
if  it  has  left  off  raining!  "  she  added,  rising  and 
going  to  look  out  of  the  window. 

Happily  it  did  not  rain  the  next  day,  and 
Gwendolen  rode  to  Diplow  on  Criterion  as  she 
had  done  on  that  former  day  when  she  returned 
with  her  mother  in  the  carriage.  She  always 
felt  the  more  daring  for  being  in  her  riding- 
dress;  besides  having  the  agreeable  belief  that 
she  looked  as  well  as  possible  in  it,  —  a  sustain- 
ing consciousness  in  any  meeting  which  seems 
formidable.  Her  anger  towards  Deronda  had 
changed  into  a  superstitious  dread,  —  due,  per- 
haps, to  the  coercion  he  had  exercised  over  her 
thought,  —  lest  that  first  interference  of  his  in 
her  Hfe  might  foreshadow^  some  future  influ- 
ence. It  is  of  such  stuff  that  superstitions  are 
commonly  made:  an  intense  feeling  about  our- 
selves which  makes  the  evening  star  shine  at  us 
with  a  threat,  and  the  blessing  of  a  beggar 
encourage  us.  And  superstitions  carry  conse- 
quences which  often  verify  their  hope  or  their 
foreboding. 

The  time  before  luncheon  was  taken  up  for 
Gwendolen  by  going  over  the  rooms  with  Mrs. 
Torrington  and  Mrs.  Davilow;  and  she  thought 
it  likely  that  if  she  saw  Deronda,  there  would 
hardly  be  need  for  more  than  a  bow  between 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  73 


them.  She  meant  to  notice  him  as  little  as 
possible. 

And  after  all  she  found  herself  under  an 
inward  compulsion  too  strong  for  her  pride. 
From  the  first  moment  of  their  being  in  the 
room  together,  she  seemed  to  herself  to  be  doing 
nothing  but  notice  him;  everything  else  was 
automatic  performance  of  an  habitual  part. 

When  he  took  his  place  at  lunch,  Grandcourt 
had  said,  "  Deronda,  Miss  Harleth  tells  me  you 
were  not  introduced  to  her  at  Leubronn?  " 

"  Miss  Harleth  hardly  remembers  me,  I  im- 
agine," said  Deronda,  looking  at  her  quite 
simply,  as  they  bowed.  "  She  was  intensely 
occupied  when  I  saw  her." 

Now,  did  he  suppose  that  she  had  not  sus- 
pected him  of  being  the  person  who  redeemed 
her  necklace? 

"  On  the  contrary.  I  remember  you  very 
well,"  said  Gwendolen,  feeling  rather  nervous, 
but  governing  herself  and  looking  at  him  in 
return  with  new  examination.  "  You  did  not 
approve  of  my  playing  at  roulette." 

"How  did  you  come  to  that  conclusion?" 
said  Deronda,  gravely. 

"  Oh,  you  cast  an  evil  eye  on  my  play,"  said 
Gwendolen,  with  a  turn  of  her  head  and  a 
smile.  "I  began  to  lose  as  soon  as  you  came 
to  look  on.  I  had  always  been  winning  till 
then." 

"  Roulette  in  such  a  kennel  as  Leubronn  is 
a  horrid  bore,"  said  Grandcourt. 

"  I  found  it  a  bore  when  I  began  to  lose," 
said  Gwendolen.  Her  face  was  turned  towards 
Grandcourt  as  she  smiled  and  spoke,  but  she 


74  DANIEL  DERONDA 


gave  a  side-long  glance  at  Deronda,  and  saw 
his  eyes  fixed  on  her  with  a  look  so  gravely 
penetrating  that  it  had  a  keener  edge  for  her 
than  his  ironical  smile  at  her  losses,  —  a  keener 
edge  than  Klesmer's  judgment.  She  wheeled 
her  neck  round  as  if  she  wanted  to  listen  to 
what  was  being  said  by  the  rest,  while  she  was 
only  thinking  of  Deronda.  His  face  had  that 
disturbing  kind  of  form  and  expression  which 
threatens  to  affect  opinion,  —  as  if  one's  stand- 
ard were  somehow  wrong.  (Who  has  not  seen 
men  with  faces  of  this  corrective  power  till  they 
frustrated  it  by  speech  or  action?)  His  voice, 
heard  now  for  the  first  time,  was  to  Grand- 
court's  toneless  drawl,  which  had  been  in  her 
ears  every  day,  as  the  deep  notes  of  a  violon- 
cello to  the  broken  discourse  of  poultry  and 
other  lazy  gentry  in  the  afternoon  sunshine. 
Grandcourt,  she  inwardly  conjectured,  was  per- 
haps right  in  saying  that  Deronda  thought  too 
much  of  himself,  —  a  favourite  way  of  explain- 
ing a  superiority  that  humiliates.  However,  the 
talk  turned  on  the  rinderpest  and  Jamaica,  and 
no  more  was  said  about  roulette.  Grandcourt 
held  that  the  Jamaican  negro  was  a  beastly  sort 
of  baptist  Caliban ;  Deronda  said  he  had  always 
felt  a  little  with  Caliban,  who  naturally  had  his 
own  point  of  view  and  could  sing  a  good  song; 
Mrs.  Davilow  observed  that  her  father  had  an 
estate  in  Barbadoes,  but  that  she  herself  had 
never  been  in  the  West  Indies;  Mrs.  Torring- 
ton  was  sure  she  should  never  sleep  in  her  bed 
if  she  lived  among  blacks;  her  husband  cor- 
rected her  by  saying  that  the  blacks  would  be 
manageable  enough  if  it  were  not  for  the  half- 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  75 


breeds;  and  Deronda  remarked  that  the  whites 
had  to  thank  themselves  for  the  half-breeds. 

While  this  polite  pea-shooting  was  going  on, 
Gwendolen  trifled  with  her  jelly,  and  looked  at 
every  speaker  in  turn  that  she  might  feel  at 
ease  in  looking  at  Deronda. 

"  I  wonder  what  he  thinks  of  me  really?  He 
must  have  felt  interested  in  me,  else  he  would 
not  have  sent  me  my  necklace.  I  wonder  what 
he  thinks  of  my  marriage?  What  notions  has 
he  to  make  him  so  grave  about  things?  Why 
is  he  come  to  Diplow?  " 

These  questions  ran  in  her  mind  as  the  voice 
of  an  uneasy  longing  to  be  judged  by  Deronda 
with  unmixed  admiration,  —  a  longing  which 
had  had  its  seed  in  her  first  resentment  at  his 
critical  glance.  Why  did  she  care  so  much  about 
the  opinion  of  this  man  who  was  nothing  of 
any  consequence  "?  She  had  no  time  to  find  the 
reason,  —  she  was  too  much  engaged  in  caring. 
In  the  drawing-room,  when  something  had 
called  Grandcourt  away,  she  went  quite  unpre- 
meditatedly  up  to  Deronda,  who  was  standing 
at  a  table  apart,  turning  over  some  prints,  and 
said  to  him,  — 

"  Shall  you  hunt  to-morrow,  Mr.  Deronda?  " 

"  Yes,  I  believe  so." 

"  You  don't  object  to  hunting,  then?  " 

"  I  find  excuses  for  it.  It  is  a  sin  I  am  in- 
clined to,  —  when  I  can't  get  boating  or 
cricketing." 

"  Do  you  object  to  my  hunting?  "  said  Gwen- 
dolen, with  a  saucy  movement  of  the  chin. 

"  I  have  no  right  to  object  to  anything  you 
phoose  to  do." 


76  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  You  thought  you  had  a  right  to  object  to 
my  gambling,"  persisted  Gwendolen. 

"  I  was  sorry  for  it.  I  am  not  aware  that 
I  told  you  of  my  objection,"  said  Deronda,  with 
his  usual  directness  of  gaze,  —  a  large-eyed 
gravity,  innocent  of  any  intention.  His  eyes 
had  a  peculiarity  which  has  drawn  many  men 
into  trouble;  they  were  of  a  dark  yet  mild  in- 
tensity, which  seemed  to  express  a  special 
interest  in  every  one  on  whom  he  fixed  them,  and 
might  easily  help  to  bring  on  him  those  claims 
which  ardently  sympathetic  people  are  often 
creating  in  the  minds  of  those  who  need  help. 
In  mendicant  fashion,  we  make  the  goodness 
of  others  a  reason  for  exorbitant  demands  on 
them.  That  sort  of  effect  was  penetrating 
Gwendolen. 

"  You  hindered  me  from  gambling  again," 
she  answered.  But  she  had  no  sooner  spoken 
than  she  blushed  over  face  and  neck;  and  De- 
ronda blushed  too,  conscious  that  in  the  little 
affair  of  the  necklace  he  had  taken  a  question- 
able freedom. 

It  was  impossible  to  speak  further;  and  she 
turned  away  to  a  window,  feeling  that  she  had 
stupidly  said  what  she  had  not  meant  to  say, 
and  yet  being  rather  happy  that  she  had  plunged 
into  this  mutual  understanding.  Deronda  also 
did  not  dislike  it.  Gwendolen  seemed  more  de- 
cidedly attractive  than  before;  and  certainly 
there  had  been  changes  going  on  within  her 
since  that  time  at  Leubronn:  the  struggle  of 
mind  attending  a  conscious  error  had  wakened 
something  like  a  new  soul,  which  had  better,  but 
also  worse,  possibilities  than  her  former  poise 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  77 


of  crude  self-confidence:  among  the  forces  she 
had  come  to  dread  was  something  within  her 
that  troubled  satisfaction. 

That  evening  Mrs.  Davilow  said,  "  Was  it 
really  so,  or  only  a  joke  of  yours,  about  Mr. 
Deronda's  spoiling  your  play,  Gwen?  " 

Her  curiosity  had  been  excited,  and  she  could 
venture  to  ask  a  question  that  did  not  concern 
Mr.  Grandcourt. 

"  Oh,  it  merely  happened  that  he  was  looking 
on  when  I  began  to  lose,"  said  Gwendolen,  care- 
lessly.   "  I  noticed  him." 

"I  don't  wonder  at  that:  he  is  a  striking 
young  man.  He  puts  me  in  mind  of  Italian 
paintings.  One  would  guess,  without  being 
told,  that  there  was  foreign  blood  in  his  veins." 

"  Is  there?  "  said  Gwendolen. 

"  Mrs.  Torrington  says  so.  I  asked  particu- 
larly who  he  was,  and  she  told  me  that  his  mother 
was  some  foreigner  of  high  rank." 

"  His  mother? "  said  Gwendolen,  rather 
sharply.    "  Then  who  was  his  father?  " 

"  Well  —  every  one  says  he  is  the  son  of  Sir 
Hugo  Mallinger,  who  brought  him  up;  though 
he  passes  for  a  ward.  She  says,  if  Sir  Hugo 
Mallinger  could  have  done  as  he  liked  with  his 
estates  he  would  have  left  them  to  this  Mr. 
Deronda,  since  he  has  no  legitimate  son." 

Gwendolen  was  silent;  but  her  mother  ob- 
served so  marked  an  effect  in  her  face  that  she 
was  angry  with  herself  for  having  repeated  Mrs. 
Torrington's  gossip.  It  seemed,  on  reflection, 
unsuited  to  the  ear  of  her  daughter,  for  whom 
Mrs.  Davilow  disliked  what  is  called  knowledge 


78  DANIEL  DERONDA 


of  the  world;  and  indeed  she  wished  that  she 
herself  had  not  had  any  of  it  thrust  upon 
her. 

An  image  which  had  immediately  arisen  in 
Gwendolen's  mind  was  that  of  the  unknown 
mother,  —  no  doubt  a  dark-eyed  woman,  — 
probably  sad.  Hardly  any  face  could  be  less 
like  Deronda's  than  that  represented  as  Sir 
Hugo's  in  a  crayon  portrait  at  Diplow.  A  dark- 
eyed  beautiful  woman,  no  longer  young,  had 
become  "  stuff  o'  the  conscience  "  to  Gwendolen. 

That  night  when  she  had  got  into  her  little 
bed,  and  only  a  dim  light  was  burning,  she 
said,  — 

"  Mamma,  have  men  generally  children  be- 
fore they  are  married?  " 

"  No,  dear,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Davilow.  "  Why 
do  you  ask  such  a  question?  "  (But  she  began 
to  think  that  she  saw  the  why.) 

"  If  it  were  so,  I  ought  to  know;"  said  Gwen- 
dolen, with  some  indignation. 

"  You  are  thinking  of  what  I  said  about  Mr. 
Deronda  and  Sir  Hugo  Mallinger.  That  is 
a  very  unusual  case,  dear." 

"Does  Lady  Mallinger  know?" 

"  She  knows  enough  to  satisfy  her.  That  is 
quite  clear,  because  Mr.  Deronda  has  lived  with 
them." 

"  And  people  think  no  worse  of  him?  " 

"  Well,  of  course  he  is  under  some  disadvan- 
tage: it  is  not  as  if  he  were  Lady  Mallinger's 
son.  He  does  not  inherit  the  property,  and  he 
is  not  of  any  consequence  in  the  world.  But 
people  are  not  obliged  to  know  anything  about 
his  birth;  you  see,  he  is  very  well  received." 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  79 


"  I  wonder  whether  he  knows  about  it;  and 
whether  he  is  angry  with  his  father?  " 

"  My  dear  child,  why  should  you  think  of 
that?" 

"Why?"  said  Gwendolen,  impetuously,  sit- 
ting up  in  her  bed.  "  Have  n't  children  reason 
to  be  angry  with  their  parents?  How  can  they 
help  their  parents  marrying  or  not  marrying?  " 

But  a  consciousness  rushed  upon  her,  which 
made  her  fall  back  again  on  her  pillow.  It  was 
not  only  what  she  would  have  felt  months  be- 
fore, —  that  she  might  seem  to  be  reproaching 
her  mother  for  that  second  marriage  of  hers; 
what  she  chiefly  felt  now  was,  that  she  had  been 
led  on  to  a  condemnation  which  seemed  to  make 
her  own  marriage  a  forbidden  thing. 

There  was  no  further  talk,  and  till  sleep  came 
over  her,  Gwendolen  lay  struggling  with  the 
reasons  against  that  marriage,  —  reasons  which 
pressed  upon  her  newly  now  that  they  were  un- 
expectedly mirrored  in  the  story  of  a  man  whose 
slight  relations  with  her  had,  by  some  hidden 
aflinity,  bitten  themselves  into  the  most  per- 
manent layers  of  feeling.  It  was  characteristic 
that,  with  all  her  debating,  she  was  never  trou- 
bled by  the  question  whether  the  indefensible- 
ness  of  her  marriage  did  not  include  the  fact  that 
she  had  accepted  Grandcourt  solely  as  the  man 
whom  it  was  convenient  for  her  to  marry,  not 
in  the  least  as  one  to  whom  she  Avould  be  binding 
herself  in  duty.  Gwendolen's  ideas  were  piti- 
ably crude;  but  many  grand  difficulties  of  life 
are  apt  to  force  themselves  on  us  in  our  crudity. 
And  to  judge  wisely  I  suppose  we  must  know 
how  things  appear  to  the  unwise;  that  kind  of 


80  DANIEL  DERONDA 


appearance  making  the  larger  part  of  the 
world's  history. 

In  the  morning  there  was  a  double  excitement 
for  her.  She  was  going  to  hunt,  from  which 
scruples  about  propriety  had  threatened  to 
hinder  her,  until  it  was  found  that  Mrs.  Torring- 
ton  was  horse-woman  enough  to  accompany  her, 
—  going  to  hunt  for  the  first  time  since  her 
escapade  with  Rex;  and  she  was  going  again 
to  see  Deronda,  in  whom,  since  last  night,  her 
interest  had  so  gathered  that  she  expected,  as 
people  do  about  revealed  celebrities,  to  see  some- 
thing in  his  appearance  which  she  had  missed 
before.  What  was  he  going  to  be?  What  sort 
of  life  had  he  before  him,  —  he  being  nothing 
of  any  consequence  ?  And  with  only  a  little  dif- 
ference in  events  he  might  have  been  as  impor- 
tant as  Grandcourt,  nay,  —  her  imagination 
inevitably  went  in  that  direction,  —  might  have 
held  the  very  estates  which  Grandcourt  was  to 
have.  But  now  Deronda  would  probably  some 
day  see  her  mistress  of  the  Abbey  at  Topping, 
see  her  bearing  the  title  which  would  have  been 
his  own  wife's.  These  obvious,  futile  thoughts 
of  what  might  have  been,  made  a  new  epoch  for 
Gwendolen.  She,  whose  unquestioning  habit 
it  had  been  to  take  the  best  that  came  to  her  for 
less  than  her  own  claim,  had  now  to  see  the  posi- 
tion which  tempted  her  in  a  new  light,  as  a  hard, 
unfair  exclusion  of  others.  What  she  had  now 
heard  about  Deronda  seemed  to  her  imagination 
to  throw  him  into  one  group  with  Mrs.  Glasher 
and  her  children;  before  whom  she  felt  herself 
in  an  attitude  of  apology,  —  she  who  had 
hitherto  been  surrounded  by  a  group  that  in  her 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  81 


opinion  had  need  be  apologetic  to  her.  Perhaps 
Deronda  himself  was  thinking  of  these  things. 
Could  he  know  of  Mrs.  Glasher?  If  he  knew 
that  she  knew,  he  would  despise  her;  but  he 
could  have  no  such  knowledge.  Would  he, 
without  that,  despise  her  for  marrying  Grand- 
court?  His  possible  judgment  of  her  actions 
was  telling  on  her  as  importunately  as  Klesmer's 
judgment  of  her  powers;  but  she  found  larger 
room  for  resistance  to  a  disapproval  of  her 
marriage,  because  it  is  easier  to  make  our  con- 
duct seem  justifiable  to  ourselves  than  to  make 
our  ability  strike  others.  "  How  can  I  help  — ^ 
it?  "  is  not  our  favourite  apology  for  incom- 
petence. But  Gwendolen  felt  some  strength  in 
saying,  — 

"  How  can  I  help  what  other  people  have 
done?  Things  would  not  come  right  if  I  were 
to  turn  round  uow  and  declare  that  I  would  not 
marry  JNIr.  Grandcourt."  And  such  turning 
round  was  out  of  the  question.  The  horses  in 
the  chariot  she  had  mounted  were  going  at  full 
speed. 

This  mood  of  youthful,  elated  desperation 
had  a  tidal  recurrence.  She  could  dare  anything 
that  lay  before  her  sooner  than  she  could  choose 
to  go  backward  into  humiliation;  and  it  was 
even  soothing  to  think  that  there  would  now  be 
as  much  ill-doing  in  the  one  as  in  the  other.  But 
the  immediate  delightful  fact  was  the  hunt, 
where  she  would  see  Deronda,  and  where  he 
would  see  her;  for  always  lurking  ready  to 
obtrude  before  other  thoughts  about  him  was  the 
impression  that  he  was  very  much  interested  in 
her.   But  to-day  she  was  resolved  not  to  repeat 

VOL.  XIII  —  6 


82  DANIEL  DERONDA 


her  foily  of  yesterday,  as  if  she  were  anxious  to 
say  anything  to  him.  Indeed,  the  hunt  would  be 
too  absorbing. 

And  so  it  was  for  a  long  while.  Deronda  was 
there,  and  within  her  sight  very  often;  but  this 
only  added  to  the  stimulus  of  a  pleasure  which 
Gwendolen  had  only  once  before  tasted,  and 
which  seemed  likely  always  to  give  a  delight 
independent  of  any  crosses,  except  such  as  took 
away  the  chance  of  riding.  No  accident  hap- 
pened to  throw  them  together;  the  run  took 
them  within  convenient  reach  of  home,  and  in 
the  agreeable  sombreness  of  the  gray  November 
afternoon,  with  a  long  stratum  of  yellow  light 
in  the  west,  Gwendolen  was  returning  with  the 
company  from  Diplow,  who  were  attending  her 
on  the  way  to  Offendene.  Now  that  the  sense  of 
glorious  excitement  was  over  and  gone,  she  was 
getting  irritably  disappointed  that  she  had  had 
no  opportunity  of  speaking  to  Deronda,  whom 
she  would  not  see  again,  since  he  was  to  go  away 
in  a  couple  of  days.  What  was  she  going  to 
say?  That  was  not  quite  certain.  She  wanted 
to  speak  to  him.  Grandcourt  was  by  her  side; 
Mrs.  Torrington,  her  husband,  and  another 
gentleman  in  advance ;  and  Deronda's  horse  she 
could  hear  behind.  The  wish  to  speak  to  him 
and  have  him  speaking  to  her  was  becoming  im- 
perious; and  there  was  no  chance  of  it  unless 
she  simply  asserted  her  will  and  defied  every- 
thing. Where  the  order  of  things  could  give 
way  to  Miss  Gwendolen,  it  must  be  made  to  do 
so.  They  had  lately  emerged  from  a  wood  of 
pines  and  beeches,  where  the  twilight  stillness 
had  a  repressing  effect,  which  increased  her  im- 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  83 


patience.  The  horse-hoofs  again  heard  behind 
at  some  little  distance  were  a  growing  irritation. 
She  reined  in  her  horse  and  looked  behind  her; 
Grandcourt,  after  a  few  paces,  also  paused;  but 
she,  waving  her  whip  and  nodding  sideways 
with  playful  imperiousness,  said  "  Go  on!  I 
want  to  speak  to  Mr.  Deronda." 

Grandcourt  hesitated ;  but  that  he  would  have 
done  after  any  proposition.  It  was  an  awkward 
situation  for  him.  No  gentleman,  before  mar- 
riage, could  give  the  emphasis  of  refusal  to  a 
command  delivered  in  this  playful  way.  He 
rode  on  slowly,  and  she  waited  till  Deronda 
came  up.  He  looked  at  her  with  tacit  inquiry, 
and  she  said  at  once,  letting  her  horse  go  along- 
side of  his,  — 

"  Mr.  Deronda,  you  must  enlighten  my  igno- 
rance. I  want  to  know  why  you  thought  it 
wrong  for  me  to  gamble.  Is  it  because  I  am  a 
woman?  " 

"  Not  altogether;  but  I  regretted  it  the  more 
because  you  were  a  woman,"  said  Deronda,  with 
an  irrepressible  smile.  Apparently  it  must  be 
understood  between  them  now  that  it  was  he  who 
sent  the  necklace.  "  I  think  it  would  be  better 
for  men  not  to  gamble.  It  is  a  besotting  kind  of 
taste,  likely  to  turn  into  a  disease.  And,  be- 
sides, there  is  something  revolting  to  me  in  rak- 
ing a  heap  of  money  together,  and  internally 
chuckling  over  it,  when  others  are  feeling  the 
loss  of  it.  I  should  even  call  it  base,  if  it  were 
more  than  an  exceptional  lapse.  There  are 
enough  inevitable  turns  of  fortune  which  force 
us  to  see  that  our  gain  is  another's  loss;  that  is 
one  of  the  ugly  aspects  of  life.   One  would  like 


84  DANIEL  DERONDA 


to  reduce  it  as  much  as  one  could,  not  get  amuse- 
ment out  of  exaggerating  it."  Deronda's  voice 
had  gathered  some  indignation  while  he  was 
speaking. 

"  But  you  do  admit  that  we  can't  help  things," 
said  Gwendolen,  with  a  drop  in  her  tone.  The 
answer  had  not  been  anything  like  what  she 
had  expected.  "  I  mean  that  things  are  so  in 
spite  of  us;  we  can't  always  help  it  that  our 
gain  is  another's  loss." 

"  Clearly.  Because  of  that,  we  should  help  it 
where  we  can." 

Gwendolen,  biting  her  lip  inside,  paused  a 
moment,  and  then  forcing  herself  to  speak  with 
an  air  of  playfulness  again,  said,  — 

"  But  why  should  you  regret  it  more  because 
I  am  a  woman?" 

"  Perhaps  because  we  need  that  you  should  be 
better  than  we  are." 

"  But  suppose  we  need  that  men  should  be 
better  than  we  are,"  said  Gwendolen,  with  a  lit- 
tle air  of  "check!" 

"  That  is  rather  a  difficulty,"  said  Deronda, 
smiling.  "  I  suppose  I  should  have  said,  we 
each  of  us  think  it  would  be  better  for  the  other 
to  be  good." 

"  You  see,  I  needed  you  to  be  better  than  I 
was  —  and  you  thought  so,"  said  Gwendolen, 
nodding  and  laughing,  while  she  put  her  horse 
forward  and  joined  Grandcourt,  who  made  no 
observation. 

"Don't  you  want  to  know  what  I  had  to  say 
to  Mr.  Deronda?  "  said  Gwendolen,  whose  own 
pride  required  her  to  account  for  her  conduct. 

"A  —  no,"  said  Grandcourt,  coldly. 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  85 


"  Now,  that  is  the  first  impolite  word  you  have 
spoken,  —  that  you  don't  wish  to  hear  what  I 
had  to  say,"  said  Gwendolen,  playing  at  a  pout. 

"  I  wish  to  hear  what  you  say  to  me  —  not 
to  other  men,"  said  Grandcourt. 

"  Then  you  wish  to  hear  this.  I  wanted  to 
make  him  tell  me  why  he  objected  to  my  gam- 
bling, and  he  gave  me  a  little  sermon." 

"  Yes,  —  but  excuse  me  the  sermon."  If 
Gwendolen  imagined  that  Grandcourt  cared 
about  her  speaking  to  Deronda,  he  wished  her 
to  understand  that  she  was  mistaken.  But  he 
was  not  fond  of  being  told  to  ride  on.  She 
saw  he  was  piqued,  but  did  not  mind.  She  had 
accomplished  her  object  of  speaking  again  to 
Deronda  before  he  raised  his  hat  and  turned  with 
the  rest  towards  Diplow,  while  her  lover  at- 
tended her  to  Offendene,  where  he  was  to  bid 
farewell  before  a  whole  day's  absence  on  the  un- 
specified journey.  Grandcourt  had  spoken  truth 
in  calling  the  journey  a  bore:  he  was  going  by 
train  to  Gadsmere. 


CHAPTER  III 


"No  penitence  and  no  confessional: 
No  priest  ordains  it,  yet  they  're  forced  to  sit 
Amid  deep  ashes  of  their  vanished  years." 


IMAGINE  a  rambling,  patchy  house,  the 
best  part  built  of  gray  stone,  and  red-tiled, 
a  round  tower  jutting  at  one  of  the  corners, 
the  mellow  darkness  of  its  conical  roof  sur- 
mounted by  a  weather-cock  making  an  agree- 
able object  either  amidst  the  gleams  and  greenth 
of  summer  or  the  low-hanging  clouds  and 
snowy  branches  of  winter:  the  ground  shady 
with  spreading  trees:  a  great  cedar  flourishing 
on  one  side,  backward  some  Scotch  firs  on  a 
broken  bank  where  the  roots  hung  naked,  and 
beyond,  a  rookery :  on  the  other  si^ e  a  pool  over- 
hung with  bushes,  where  the  water-fowl  flut- 
tered and  screamed:  all  around,  a  vast  meadow 
which  might  be  called  a  park,  bordered  by  an 
old  plantation  and  guarded  by  stone  lodges 
which  looked  like  little  prisons.  Outside  the 
gate  the  country,  once  entirely  rural  and  lovely, 
now  black  with  coal-mines,  was  chiefly  peopled 
by  men  and  brethren  with  candles  stuck  in  their 
hats,  and  with  a  diabolic  complexion  which  laid 
them  peculiarly  open  to  suspicion  in  the  eyes 
of  the  children  of  Gadsmere,  —  Mrs.  Glasher's 
four  beautiful  children,  who  had  dwelt  there 
for  about  three  years.  Now,  in  November,  when 
the  flower-beds  were  empty,  the  trees  leafless, 
and  the  pool  blackly  shivering,  one  might  have 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  87 


said  that  the  place  was  sombrely  in  keeping  with 
the  black  roads  and  black  mounds  which  seemed 
to  put  the  district  in  mourning ;  —  except  when 
the  children  were  playing  on  the  gravel  with 
the  dogs  for  their  companions.  But  Mrs. 
Glasher  under  her  present  circumstances  liked 
Gadsmere  as  well  as  she  would  have  liked  any 
other  abode.  The  complete  seclusion  of  the 
place,  which  the  unattractiveness  of  the  country 
secured,  was  exactly  to  her  taste.  When  she 
drove  her  two  ponies  with  a  wagonet  full  of 
children,  there  were  no  gentry  in  carriages  to  be 
met,  only  men  of  business  in  gigs;  at  church 
there  were  no  eyes  she  cared  to  avoid,  for  the 
curate's  wife  and  the  curate  himself  were  either 
ignorant  of  anything  to  her  disadvantage,  or 
ignored  it:  to  them  she  was  simply  a  widow 
lady,  the  tenant  of  Gadsmere ;  and  the  name  of 
Grandcourt  was  of  little  interest  in  that  district 
compared  with  the  names  of  Fletcher  and  Gaw- 
come,  the  lessees  of  the  collieries. 

It  was  full  ten  years  since  the  elopement  of 
an  Irish  officer's  beautiful  wife  with  young 
Grandcourt,  and  a  consequent  duel  where  the 
bullets  wounded  the  air  only,  had  made  some 
little  noise.  Most  of  those  who  remembered  the 
affair  now  wondered  what  had  become  of  that 
Mrs.  Glasher  whose  beauty  and  brilliancy  had 
made  her  rather  conspicuous  to  them  in  foreign 
places,  where  she  was  known  to  be  living  with 
young  Grandcourt. 

That  he  should  have  disentangled  himself 
from  that  connection  seemed  only  natural  and 
desirable.  As  to  her,  it  was  thought  that  a 
woman  who  was  understood  to  have  forsaken 


88  DANIEL  DERONDA 


her  child  along  with  her  husband  had  probably 
sunk  lower.  Gran^court  had  of  course  got 
weary  of  her.  He  was  much  given  to  the  pur- 
suit of  women :  but  a  man  in  his  position  would 
by  this  time  desire  to  make  a  suitable  marriage 
with  the  fair  young  daughter  of  a  noble  house. 
No  one  talked  of  Mrs.  Glasher  now,  any  more 
than  they  talked  of  the  victim  in  a  trial  for  man- 
slaughter ten  years  before :  she  was  a  lost  vessel 
after  whom  nobody  would  send  out  an  expedi- 
tion of  search ;  but  Grandcourt  was  seen  in  har- 
bour with  his  colours  flying  registered  as  sea- 
worthy as  ever. 

Yet,  in  fact,  Grandcourt  had  never  disen- 
tangled himself  from  Mrs.  Glasher.  His  pas- 
sion for  her  had  been  the  strongest  and  most 
lasting  he  had  ever  known;  and  though  it  was 
now  as  dead  as  the  music  of  a  cracked  flute,  it 
had  left  a  certain  dull  disposedness,  which  on 
the  death  of  her  husband  three  years  before  had 
prompted  in  him  a  vacillating  notion  of  marry- 
ing her,  in  accordance  with  the  understanding 
often  expressed  between  them  during  the  days 
of  his  first  ardour.  At  that  early  time  Grand- 
court  would  willingly  have  paid  for  the  freedom 
to  be  won  by  a  divorce ;  but  the  husband  would 
not  oblige  him,  not  wanting  to  be  married  again 
himself,  and  not  wishing  to  have  his  domestic 
habits  printed  in  evidence. 

The  altered  poise  which  the  years  had  brought 
in  Mrs.  Glasher  was  just  the  reverse.  At  first 
she  was  comparatively  careless  about  the  possi- 
bility of  marriage.  It  was  enough  that  she  had 
escaped  from  a  disagreeable  husband  and  found 
a  sort  of  bliss  with  a  lover  who  had  completely 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  89 


fascinated  her,  —  young,  handsome,  amorous, 
and  hving  in  the  best  style,  with  equipage  and 
conversation  of  the  kind  to  be  expected  in  young 
men  of  fortune  who  have  seen  everything.  She 
was  an  impassioned,  vivacious  woman,  fond  of 
adoration,  exasperated  by  five  years  of  marital 
rudeness ;  and  the  sense  of  release  was  so  strong 
upon  her  that  it  stilled  anxiety  for  more  than 
she  actually  enjoyed.  An  equivocal  position 
was  of  no  importance  to  her  then;  she  had  no 
envy  for  the  honours  of  a  dull  disregarded  wife: 
the  one  spot  which  spoiled  her  vision  of  her  new 
pleasant  world,  was  the  sense  that  she  had  left 
her  three-year-old  boy,  who  died  two  years  after- 
wards, and  whose  first  tones  saying  "  Mamma  " 
retained  a  difference  from  those  of  the  chil- 
dren that  came  after.  But  now  the  years  had 
brought  many  changes  besides  those  in  the 
contour  of  her  cheek  and  throat;  and  that 
Grandcourt  should  marry  her  had  become  her 
dominant  desire.  The  equivocal  position  which 
she  had  not  minded  about  for  herself  was  now 
telling  upon  her  through  her  children,  whom  she 
loved  with  a  devotion  charged  with  the  added 
passion  of  atonement.  She  had  no  repentance 
except  in  this  direction.  If  Grandcourt  married 
her,  the  children  would  be  none  the  worse  off 
for  what  had  passed:  they  would  see  their 
mother  in  a  dignified  position,  and  they  would 
be  at  no  disadvantage  with  the  world:  her  son 
could  be  made  his  father's  heir.  It  was  the 
yearning  for  this  result  which  gave  the  supreme 
importance  to  Grandcourt's  feeling  for  her;  her 
love  for  him  had  long  resolved  itself  into  anxiety 
that  he  should  give  her  the  unique,  permanent 


90  DANIEL  DERONDA 


claim  of  a  wife,  and  she  expected  no  other  happi- 
ness in  marriage  than  the  satisfaction  of  her 
maternal  love  and  pride,  —  including  her  pride 
for  herself  in  the  presence  of  her  children.  For 
the  sake  of  that  result  she  was  prepared  even 
with  a  tragic  firmness  to  endure  anything 
quietly  in  marriage;  and  she  had  had  acuteness 
enough  to  cherish  Grandcourt's  flickering  pur- 
pose negatively,  by  not  molesting  him  with  pas- 
sionate appeals  and  with  scene-making.  In  her, 
as  in  every  one  else  who  wanted  anything  of  him, 
his  incalculable  turns,  and  his  tendency  to  harden 
under  beseeching,  had  created  a  reasonable 
dread,  —  a  slow  discovery,  of  which  no  presenti- 
ment had  been  given  in  the  bearing  of  a  youthful 
lover  with  a  fine  line  of  face  and  the  softest 
manners.  But  reticence  had  necessarily  cost 
something  to  this  impassioned  woman,  and  she 
was  the  bitterer  for  it.  There  is  no  quailing  — 
even  that  forced  on  the  helpless  and  injured  — 
which  has  not  an  ugly  obverse:  the  withheld 
sting  was  gathering  venom.  She  was  absolutely 
dependent  on  Grandcourt;  for  though  he  had 
been  always  liberal  in  expenses  for  her,  he  had 
kept  everything  voluntary  on  his  part ;  and  with 
the  goal  of  marriage  before  her,  she  would  ask 
for  nothing  less.  He  had  said  that  he  would 
never  settle  anything  except  by  will;  and  when 
she  was  thinking  of  alternatives  for  the  future, 
it  often  occurred  to  her  that,  even  if  she  did  not 
become  Grandcourt's  wife,  he  might  never  have 
a  son  who  would  have  a  legitimate  claim  on  him, 
and  the  end  might  be  that  her  son  would  be  made 
heir  to  the  best  part  of  his  estates.  No  son  at 
that  early  age  could  promise  to  have  more  of  his 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  91 


father's  physique.  But  her  becoming  Grand- 
court's  wife  was  so  far  from  being  an  extrava- 
gant notion  of  possibihty,  that  even  Lush  had 
entertained  it,  and  had  said  that  he  would  as  soon 
bet  on  it  as  on  any  other  hkehhood  with  regard 
to  his  famihar  companion.  Lush,  indeed,  on 
inferring  that  Grandcourt  had  a  preconception 
of  using  his  residence  at  Diplow  in  order  to  win 
Miss  Arrowpoint,  had  thought  it  well  to  fan  that 
project,  taking  it  as  a  tacit  renunciation  of  the 
marriage  with  Mrs.  Glasher,  which  had  long 
been  a  mark  for  the  hovering  and  wheeling  of 
Grandcourt's  caprice.  But  both  prospects  had 
been  negatived  by  Gwendolen's  appearance  on 
the  scene;  and  it  was  natural  enough  for  Mrs. 
Glasher  to  enter  with  eagerness  into  Lush's 
plan  of  hindering  that  new  danger  by  setting 
up  a  barrier  in  the  mind  of  the  girl  who  was 
being  sought  as  a  bride.  She  entered  into  it  with 
an  eagerness  which  had  passion  in  it  as  well  as 
purpose,  some  of  the  stored-up  venom  delivering 
itself  in  that  way. 

After  that,  she  had  heard  from  Lush  of  Gwen- 
dolen's departure,  and  the  probability  that  all 
danger  from  her  was  got  rid  of;  but  there 
had  been  no  letter  to  tell  her  that  the  danger  had 
returned  and  had  become  a  certainty.  She  had 
since  then  written  to  Grandcourt  as  she  did 
habitually,  and  he  had  been  longer  than  usual 
in  answering.  She  was  inferring  that  he  might 
intend  coming  to  Gadsmere  at  the  time  when  he 
was  actually  on  the  way;  and  she  was  not  with- 
out hope  —  what  construction  of  another's  mind 
is  not  strong  wishing  equal  to  ?  —  that  a  certain 
sickening  from  that  frustrated  courtship  might 


92  DANIEL  DERONDA 


dispose  him  to  slip  the  more  easily  into  the  old 
track  of  intention. 

Grandcourt  had  two  grave  purposes  in  com- 
ing to  Gadsmere:  to  convey  the  news  of  his 
approaching  marriage  in  person,  in  order  to 
make  this  first  difficulty  final;  and  to  get  from 
Lydia  his  mother's  diamonds,  which  long  ago 
he  had  confided  to  her  and  wished  her  to  wear. 
Her  person  suited  diamonds,  and  made  them 
look  as  if  they  were  worth  some  of  the  money 
given  for  them.  These  particular  diamonds  were 
not  mountains  of  light,  —  they  were  mere  peas 
and  haricots  for  the  ears,  neck,  and  hair;  but 
they  were  worth  some  thousands,  and  Grand- 
court  necessarily  wished  to  have  them  for  his 
wife.  Formerly  when  he  had  asked  Lydia  to 
put  them  into  his  keeping  again,  simply  on  the 
ground  that  they  would  be  safer  and  ought  to 
be  deposited  at  the  bank,  she  had  quietly  but 
absolutely  refused,  declaring  that  they  were 
quite  safe;  and  at  last  had  said,  "  If  you  ever 
marry  another  woman  I  will  give  them  up  to 
her:  are  you  going  to  marry  another  woman?  " 
At  that  time  Grandcourt  had  no  motive  which 
urged  him  to  persist;  and  he  had  this  grace  in 
him,  that  the  disposition  to  exercise  power  either 
b}^  cowing  or  disappointing  others  or  exciting 
in  them  a  rage  which  they  dared  not  express, 
—  a  disposition  which  was  active  in  him  as  other 
propensities  became  languid,  —  had  always  been 
in  abeyance  before  Lydia.  A  severe  interpreter 
might  say  that  the  mere  facts  of  their  relation 
to  each  other,  the  melancholy  position  of  this 
woman  who  depended  on  his  will,  made  a  stand- 
ing banquet  for  his  delight  in  dominating.  But 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  93 


there  was  something  else  than  this  in  his  forbear- 
ance towards  her:  there  was  the  surviving 
though  metamorphosed  effect  of  the  power  she 
had  had  over  him;  and  it  was  this  effect,  the 
fitful  dull  lapse  towards  solicitations  that  once 
had  the  zest  now  missing  from  life,  which  had 
again  and  again  inclined  him  to  espouse  a  fa- 
miliar past  rather  than  rouse  himself  to  the 
expectation  of  novelty.  But  now  novelty  had 
taken  hold  of  him  and  urged  him  to  make  the 
most  of  it. 

Mrs.  Glasher  was  seated  in  the  pleasant  room 
where  she  habitually  passed  her  mornings  with 
her  children  round  her.  It  had  a  square  pro- 
jecting window  and  looked  on  broad  gravel  and 
grass,  sloping  towards  a  little  brook  that  entered 
the  pool.  The  top  of  a  low  black  cabinet,  the  old 
oak  table,  the  chairs  in  tawny  leather,  were  lit- 
tered with  the  children's  toys,  books,  and  garden 
garments,  at  which  a  maternal  lady  in  pastel 
looked  down  from  the  walls  with  smiling  indul- 
gence. The  children  were  all  there.  The  three 
girls,  seated  round  their  mother  near  the  win- 
dow, were  miniature  portraits  of  her,  —  dark- 
eyed,  delicate-featured  brunettes  with  a  rich 
bloom  on  their  cheeks,  their  little  nostrils  and 
eyebrows  singularly  finished  as  if  they  were  tiny 
women,  the  eldest  being  barely  nine.  The  boy 
was  seated  on  the  carpet  at  some  distance,  bend- 
ing his  blond  head  over  the  animals  from  a 
Noah's  ark,  admonishing  them  separately  in  a 
voice  of  threatening  command,  and  occasionally 
licking  the  spotted  ones  to  see  if  the  colours 
would  hold.  Josephine,  the  eldest,  was  having 
her  French  lesson;  and  the  others,  with  their 


94  DANIEL  DERONDA 


dolls  on  their  laps,  sat  demurely  enough  for 
images  of  the  Madonna.  Mrs.  Glasher's  toilet 
had  been  made  very  carefully,  —  each  day  now 
she  said  to  herself  that  Grandcourt  might  come 
in.  Her  head,  which,  spite  of  emaciation,  had 
an  ineffaceable  beauty  in  the  fine  profile,  crisp 
curves  of  hair,  and  clearly  marked  eyebrows, 
rose  impressively  above  her  bronze-coloured' silk 
and  velvet,  and  the  gold  necklace  which  Grand- 
court  had  first  clasped  round  her  neck  years  ago. 
Not  that  she  had  any  pleasure  in  her  toilet;  her 
chief  thought  of  herself  seen  in  the  glass  was, 
"How  changed!"  —  but  such  good  in  life  as 
remained  to  her  she  would  keep.  If  her  chief 
wish  were  fulfilled,  she  could  imagine  herself 
getting  the  comeliness  of  a  matron  fit  for  the 
highest  rank.  The  little  faces  beside  her,  almost 
exact  reductions  of  her  own,  seemed  to  tell  of 
the  blooming  curves  which  had  once  been  where 
now  was  sunken  pallor.  But  the  children 
kissed  the  pale  cheeks,  and  never  found  them  de- 
ficient. That  love  was  now  the  one  end  of  her 
fife. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Glasher  turned  away  her  head 
from  Josephine's  book  and  listened.  "  Hush, 
dear!  I  think  some  one  is  coming." 

Henleigh  the  boy  jumped  up  and  said, 
"  Mamma,  is  it  the  miller  wdth  my  donkey? " 

He  got  no  answer,  and  going  up  to  his 
mamma's  knee,  repeated  his  question  in  an  in- 
sistent tone.  But  the  door  opened,  and  the  ser- 
vant announced  Mr.  Grandcourt.  Mrs.  Glasher 
rose  in  some  agitation.  Henleigh  frowned  at 
him  in  disgust  at  his  not  being  the  miller,  and 
the  three  little  girls  lifted  up  their  dark  eyes  to 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  95 


him  timidly.  They  had  none  of  them  any  par- 
ticular liking  for  this  friend  of  mamma's,  —  in 
fact,  when  he  had  taken  Mrs.  Glasher's  hand 
and  then  turned  to  put  his  other  hand  on  Hen- 
leigh's  head,  that  energetic  scion  began  to  beat 
the  friend's  arm  away  with  his  fists.  The  little 
girls  submitted  bashfully  to  be  patted  under  the 
chin  and  kissed,  but  on  the  whole  it  seemed  bet- 
ter to  send  them  into  the  garden,  where  they 
were  presently  dancing  and  chatting  with  the 
dogs  on  the  gravel. 

"  How  far  are  you  come?  "  said  Mrs.  Glasher, 
as  Grandcourt  put  away  his  hat  and  overcoat. 

"  From  Diplow,"  he  answered  slowly,  seating 
himself  opposite  her  and  looking  at  her  with  an 
unnoting  gaze  which  she  noted. 

"  You  are  tired,  then." 

"  No,  I  rested  at  the  Junction,  —  a  hideous 
hole.  These  railway  journeys  are  always  a  con- 
founded bore.    But  I  had  coffee  and  smoked." 

Grandcourt  drew  out  his  handkerchief,  rubbed 
his  face,  and  in  returning  the  handkerchief  to 
his  pocket  looked  at  his  crossed  knee  and  blame^ 
less  boot,  as  if  any  stranger  were  opposite  to 
him,  instead  of  a  woman  quivering  with  a  sus- 
pense which  every  word  and  look  of  his  was  to 
incline  towards  hope  or  dread.  But  he  was 
really  occupied  with  their  interview  and  what 
it  was  likely  to  include.  Imagine  the  difference 
in  rate  of  emotion  between  this  woman  whom  the 
years  had  worn  to  a  more  conscious  dependence 
and  sharper  eagerness,  and  this  man  whom  they 
were  dulling  into  a  more  and  more  neutral 
obstinacy. 

"  I  expected  to  see  you  —  it  was  so  long  since 


96  DANIEL  DERONDA 


I  had  heard  from  you.  I  suppose  the  weeks 
seem  longer  at  Gadsmere  than  they  do  at  Dip- 
low,"  said  jNIrs.  Glasher.  She  had  a  quick,  in- 
cisive way  of  speaking  that  seemed  to  go  with 
her  features,  as  the  tone  and  timbre  of  a  violin 
go  vrith.  its  form. 

"  Yes,"  drawled  Grandcourt.  "  But  you 
found  the  money  paid  into  the  bank." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  JNIrs.  Glasher,  curtly,  tin- 
gling with  impatience.  Always  before  —  at 
least  she  fancied  so  —  Grandcourt  had  taken 
more  notice  of  her  and  the  children  than  he  did 
to-day. 

Yes,"  he  resumed,  playing  with  his  whisker, 
and  at  first  not  looking  at  her,  "  the  time  has 
gone  on  at  rather  a  rattling  pace  with  me ;  gen- 
erally it  is  slow  enough.  But  there  has  been  a 
good  deal  happening,  as  you  know^  "  —  here  he 
turned  his  eyes  upon  her. 

"  What  do  I  know?  "  said  she,  sharply. 

He  left  a  pause  before  he  said,  without 
change  of  manner,  "  That  I  was  thinking  of 
marrving.    You  saw  Miss  Harleth?" 

"She  told  you  that?" 

The  pale  cheeks  looked  even  paler,  perhaps 
from  the  fierce  brightness  in  the  eyes  above 
them. 

"  Xo,  Lush  told  me,"  was  the  slow  answer. 
It  was  as  if  the  thumb-screw  and  the  iron  boot 
were  being  placed  by  creeping  hands  within 
sight  of  the  expectant  victim. 

"  Good  God!  say  at  once  that  you  are  going 
to  marry  her,"  she  burst  out  passionately,  her 
knee  shaking  and  her  hands  tightly  clasped. 

"  Of  course,  this  kind  of  thing  must  happen 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  97 


some  time  or  other,  Lydia,"  said  he;  really,  now 
the  thumb-screw  was  on,  not  wishing  to  make 
the  pain  worse. 

"  You  did  n't  always  see  the  necessity." 

"  Perhaps  not.   I  see  it  now." 

Tn  those  few  undertoned  words  of  Grand- 
court's  she  felt  as  absolute  a  resistance  as  if  her 
thin  fingers  had  been  pushing  at  a  fast-shut  iron 
door.  She  knew  her  helplessness,  and  shrank 
from  testing  it  by  any  appeal,  —  shrank  from 
crying  in  a  dead  ear  and  clinging  to  dead  knees, 
only  to  see  the  immovable  face  and  feel  the  rigid 
limbs.  She  did  not  weep  nor  speak:  she  Avas 
too  hard  pressed  by  the  sudden  certainty  which 
had  as  much  of  chill  sickness  in  it  as  of  thought 
and  emotion.  The  defeated  clutch  of  struggling 
hope  gave  her  in  these  first  moments  a  horrible 
sensation.  At  last  she  rose  with  a  spasmodic 
effort,  and,  unconscious  of  everything  but  her 
wretchedness,  pressed  her  forehead  against  the 
hard  cold  glass  of  the  window.  The  children, 
playing  on  the  gravel,  took  this  as  a  sign  that 
she  wanted  them,  and  running  forward  stood 
in  front  of  her  with  their  sweet  faces  upturned 
expectantly.  This  roused  her:  she  shook  her 
head  at  them,  waved  them  off,  and  overcome 
with  this  painful  exertion,  sank  back  in  the 
nearest  chair. 

Grandcourt  had  risen  too.  He  was  doubly 
annoyed,  —  at  the  scene  itself,  and  at  the  sense 
that  no  imperiousness  of  his  could  save  him 
from  it;  but  the  task  had  to  be  gone  through, 
and  there  was  the  administrative  necessity  of 
arranging  things  so  that  there  should  be  as  little 
annoyance  as  possible  in  future.    He  was  lean- 

VOL.  XIII  7 


98           DANIEL  DERONDA  i 

ing  against  the  corner  of  the  fireplace.  She  i 
looked  up  at  him  and  said  bitterly,  — 

"  All  this  is  of  no  consequence  to  you.    I  ; 

and  the  children  are  importunate  creatures.  \ 

You  wish  to  get  away  again  and  be  with  Miss  i 

Harleth."  I 

"  Don't  make  the  affair  more  disagreeable 

than  it  need  be,  Lydia.    It  is  of  no  use  to  harp  | 

on  things  that  can't  be  altered.  Of  course  it 's  ' 
deucedly  disagreeable  to  me  to  see  you  making 

yourself  miserable.    I 've  taken  this  journey  to  i 

tell  you  what  you  must  make  up  your  mind  to;  | 

you  and  the  children  will  be  provided  for  as  \ 

usual,  and  there 's  an  end  of  it."  * 

Silence.  She  dared  not  answer.  This  woman  ! 
with  the  intense  eager  look  had  had  the  iron 

of  the  mother's  anguish  in  her  soul,  and  it  had  i 

made  her  sometimes  capable  of  a  repression  | 

harder  than  shrieking  and  struggle.   But  under-  : 

neath  the  silence  there  was  an  outlash  of  hatred  i 

and  vindictiveness :   she  wished  that  the  mar-  | 

riage  might  make  two  others  wretched,  besides  ; 

herself.   Presently  he  went  on.  I 

"  It  will  be  better  for  you.    You  may  go  on  ; 

living  here.    But  I  think  of  by  and  by  settling  ' 

a  good  sum  on  you  and  the  children,  and  you  ^ 

can  live  where  you  like.    There  will  be  nothing  ^ 

for  you  to  complain  of  then.   Whatever  happens  ■ 

you  will  feel  secure.  Nothing  could  be  done  j 
beforehand.     Everything  has  gone  on  in  a 

hurry."  j 

Grandcourt  ceased  his  slow  delivery  of  sen-  | 

tences.    He  did  not  expect  her  to  thank  him,  ; 

but  he  considered  that  she  might  reasonably  be  \ 

contented;  if  it  were  possible  for  Lydia  to  be  1 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  99 


contented.  She  showed  no  change,  and  after 
a  minute  he  said,  — 

"  You  have  never  had  any  reason  to  fear  that 
I  should  be  iUiberal.  I  don't  care  a  curse  about 
the  money." 

"  If  you  did  care  about  it,  I  suppose  you 
would  not  give  it  us,"  said  Lydia.  The  sarcasm 
was  irrepressible. 

"  That 's  a  devilishly  unfair  thing  to  say," 
Grandcourt  replied,  in  a  lower  tone;  "and  I 
advise  you  not  to  say  that  sort  of  thing  again." 

"  Should  you  punish  me  by  leaving  the  chil- 
dren in  beggary?  "  In  spite  of  herself,  the  one 
outlet  of  venom  had  brought  the  other. 

"  There  is  no  question  about  leaving  the  chil- 
dren in  beggary,"  said  Grandcourt,  still  in  his 
low  voice.  "  I  advise  you  not  to  say  things  that 
you  will  repent  of." 

"  I  am  used  to  repenting,"  said  she,  bitterly. 
"  Perhaps  you  will  repent.    You  have  already  ^ 
repented  of  loving  me." 

"  All  this  will  only  make  it  uncommonly  diffi- 
cult for  us  to  meet  again.  What  friend  have 
you  besides  me?  " 

"  Quite  true." 

The  words  came  like  a  low  moan.  .  At  the 
same  moment  there  flashed  through  her  the  wish 
that  after  promising  himself  a  better  happiness 
than  that  he  had  had  with  her,  he  might  feel 
a  misery  and  loneliness  which  would  drive  him 
back  to  her  to  find  some  memory  of  a  time  when 
he  was  young,  glad,  and  hopeful.  But  no! 
he  would  go  scathless;  it  was  she  who  had  to 
suffer. 

With  this  the  scorching  words  were  ended. 


100  DANIEL  DERONDA 


Grandcourt  had  meant  to  stay  till  evening;  he 
wished  to  curtail  his  visit,  but  there  was  no 
suitable  train  earlier  than  the  one  he  had  ar- 
ranged to  go  by,  and  he  had  still  to  speak  to 
Lydia  on  the  second  object  of  his  visit,  which 
like  a  second  surgical  operation  "seemed  to  re- 
quire an  interval.  The  hours  had  to  go  by; 
there  was  eating  to  be  done;  the  children  came 
in  again,  —  all  this  mechanism  of  life  had  to 
be  gone  through  with  the  dreary  sense  of  con- 
straint which  is  often  felt  in  domestic  quarrels 
of  a  commoner  kind.  To  Lydia  it  was  some 
slight  relief  for  her  stifled  fury  to  have  the 
children  present:  she  felt  a  savage  glory  in  their 
loveliness,  as  if  it  would  taunt  Grandcourt  with 
his  indifference  to  her  and  them,  —  a  secret 
darting  of  venom  which  was  strongly  imagina- 
tive. He  acquitted  himself  with  all  the  advan- 
tage of  a  man  whose  grace  of  bearing  has  long 
been  moulded  on  an  experience  of  boredom,  — 
nursed  the  little  Antonia,  who  sat  with  her 
hands  crossed  and  eyes  upturned  to  his  bald 
head,  which  struck  her  as  worthy  of  observation, 
—  and  propitiated  Henleigh  by  promising  him 
a  beautiful  saddle  and  bridle.  It  was  only  the 
two  eldest  girls  who  had  known  him  as  a  con- 
tinual presence;  znd  the  intervening  years  had 
overlaid  their  infantine  memories  with  a  bash- 
fulness  which  Grandcourt's  bearing  was  not 
likely  to  dissipate.  He  and  Lydia  occasionally, 
in  the  presence  of  the  servants,  made  a  conven- 
tional remark ;  otherwise  they  never  spoke ;  and 
the  stagnant  thought  in  Grandcourt's  mind  all 
the  while  was  of  his  own  infatuation  in  having 
given  her  those  diamonds,  which  obliged  him  to 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  101 


incur  the  nuisance  of  speaking  about  them.  He 
had  an  ingrained  care  for  what  he  held  to  belong 
to  his  caste,  and  about  property  he  liked  to  be 
lordly;  also  he  had  a  consciousness  of  indignity 
to  himself  in  having  to  ask  for  anything  in  the 
world.  But  however  he  might  assert  his  in- 
•  dependence  of  Mrs.  Glasher's  past,  he  had 
made  a  past  for  himself  which  was  a  stronger 
yoke  than  any  he  could  impose.  He  must 
ask  for  the  diamonds  which  he  had  promised  to 
Gwendolen. 

At  last  they  were  alone  again,  with  the  candles 
above  them,  face  to  face  with  each  other. 
Grandcourt  looked  at  his  watch,  and  then  said, 
in  an  apparently  indifferent  drawl,  "  There  is 
one  thing  I  had  to  mention,  Lydia.  My  dia- 
monds, —  you  have  them." 

"  Yes,  I  have  them,"  she  answered  promptly, 
rising  and  standing  with  her  arms  thrust  down 
and  her  fingers  threaded,  while  Grandcourt  sat 
still.  She  had  expected  the  topic,  and  made  her 
resolve  about  it.  But  she  meant  to  carry  out 
her  resolve,  if  possible,  without  exasperating 
him.  During  the  hours  of  silence  she  had  longed 
to  recall  the  words  which  had  only  widened  the 
breach  between  them. 

"  They  are  in  this  house,  I  suppose? " 

"No;  not  in  this  house." 

"  I  thought  you  said  you  kept  them  by  you." 

"  When  I  said  so,  it  was  true.  They  are  in 
the  bank  at  Dudley." 

"  Get  them  away,  will  you?  I  must  make  an 
arrangement  for  your  delivering  them  to  some 
one." 

"  Make  no  arrangement.    They  shall  be  de- 


102         DANIEL  DERONDA 


livered  to  the  person  you  intended  them  for.  I 
will  make  the  arrangement." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  What  I  say.  I  have  always  told  you  that  I 
would  give  them  up  to  your  wife.  I  shall  keep 
my  word.    She  is  not  your  wife  yet." 

"  This  is  foolery,"  said  Grandcourt,  with  un-  * 
dertoned  disgust.   It  was  too  irritating  that  his 
indulgence  of  Lydia  had  given  her  a  sort  of  mas- 
tery over  him  in  spite  of  her  dependent  condition. 

She  did  not  speak.  He  also  rose  now,  but 
stood  leaning  against  the  mantelpiece  with  his 
side-face  towards  her. 

"  The  diamonds  must  be  delivered  to  me  be- 
fore my  marriage,"  he  began  again. 

"  What  is  your  wedding-day?  " 

"  The  tenth.   There  is  no  time  to  be  lost." 

"  And  where  do  you  go  after  the  marriage?  " 

He  did  not  reply  except  by  looking  more 
sullen.  Presently  he  said,  "  You  must  ap- 
point a  day  before  then,  to  get  them  from  the 
bank  and  meet  me,  —  or  somebody  else  I  will 
commission :  it 's  a  great  nuisance.  Mention  a 
day." 

"No;  I  shall  not  do  that.  They  shall 
be  delivered  to  her  safely.  I  shall  keep  my 
word." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  said  Grandcourt,  just 
audibly,  turning  to  face  her,  "  that  you  will  not 
do  as  I  tell  you?  " 

"  Yes,  I  mean  that,"  was  the  answer  that 
leaped  out,  while  her  eyes  flashed  close  to  him. 
The  poor  creature  was  immediately  conscious 
that  if  her  words  had  any  effect  on  her  own  lot, 
the  effect  must  be  mischievous,  and  might  nullify 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  103 


all  the  remaining  advantage  of  her  long  patience. 
But  the  word  had  been  spoken. 

He  was  in  a  position  the  most  irritating  to  him. 
He  could  not  shake  her  nor  touch  her  hostilely; 
and  if  he  could,  the  process  would  not  bring  the 
diamonds.  He  shrank  from  the  only  sort  of 
threat  that  would  frighten  her,  —  if  she  believed 
it.  And  in  general,  there  was  nothing  he  hated 
more  than  to  be  forced  into  anything  like  vio- 
lence even  in  words :  his  will  must  impose  itself 
without  trouble.  After  looking  at  her  for  a  mo- 
ment, he  turned  his  side-face  towards  her  again, 
leaning  as  before,  and  said,  — 

"  Infernal  idiots  that  women  are!  " 

"  Why  will  you  not  tell  me  where  you  are 
going  after  the  marriage  ?  I  could  be  at  the  wed- 
ding if  I  liked,  and  learn  in  that  way,"  said 
Lydia,  not  shrinking  from  the  one  suicidal  form 
of  threat  within  her  power. 

"Of  course,  if  you  like,  you  can  play  the  mad 
woman,"  said  Grandcourt,  with  sotto  voce  scorn. 
"It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  you  will  wait  to 
think  what  good  will  come  of  it,  —  or  what  you 
owe  to  me." 

He  was  in  a  state  of  disgust  and  embitterment 
quite  new  in  the  history  of  their  relation  to  each 
other.  It  was  undeniable  that  this  woman  whose 
life  he  had  allowed  to  send  such  deep  suckers  into 
his,  had  a  terrible  power  of  annoyance  in  her; 
and  the  rash  hurry  of  his  proceedings  had  left 
her  opportunities  open.  His  pride  saw  very 
ugly  possibilities  threatening  it,  and  he  stood  for 
several  minutes  in  silence  reviewing  the  situa- 
tion, —  considering  how  he  could  act  upon  her. 
Unlike  himself  she  was  of  a  direct  nature,  with 


104  DANIEL  DERONDA 


'  certain  simple  strongly  coloured  tendencies,  and 
there  was  one  often-experienced  effect  which  he 
thought  he  could  count  upon  now.  As  Sir  Hugo 
had  said  of  him,  Grandcourt  knew  how  to  play 
his  cards  upon  occasion. 

He  did  not  speak  again,  but  looked  at  his 
watch,  rang  the  bell,  and  ordered  the  vehicle  to  be 
brought  round  immediately.  Then  he  removed 
farther  from  her,  walked  as  if  in  expectation  of 
a  summons,  and  remained  silent  without  turning 
his  eyes  upon  her. 

She  was  suffering  the  horrible  conflict  of  self- 
reproach  and  tenacity.  She  saw  beforehand 
Grandcourt  leaving  her  without  even  looking  at 
her  again,  —  herself  left  behind  in  lonely  un- 
certainty, —  hearing  nothing  from  him,  —  not 
knowing  whether  she  had  done  her  children 
harm,  —  feeling  that  she  had  perhaps  made  him 
hate  her,  —  all  the  wretchedness  of  a  creature 
who  had  defeated  her  own  motives.  And  yet 
she  could  not  bear  to  give  up  a  purpose  which 
was  a  sweet  morsel  to  her  vindictiveness.  If  she 
had  not  been  a  mother  she  would  willingly  have 
sacrificed  herself  to  her  revenge,  —  to  what  she 
felt  to  be  the  justice  of  hindering  another  from 
getting  happiness  by  willingly  giving  her  over 
to  misery.  The  two  dominant  passions  were  at 
struggle.    She  must  satisfy  them  both. 

"  Don't  let  us  part  in  anger,  Henleigh,"  she 
began,  without  changing  her  place  or  attitude; 
"  it  is  a  very  little  thing  I  ask.  If  I  were  refus- 
ing to  give  anything  up  that  you  call  yours,  it 
would  be  different;  that  would  be  a  reason  for 
treating  me  as  if  you  hated  me.  But  I  ask  such 
a  little  thing.   If  you  will  tell  me  where  you  are 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  105 


going  on  the  wedding-day,  I  will  take  care  that 
the  diamonds  shall  be  delivered  to  her  with- 
out scandal.  Without  scandal,"  she  repeated 
entreatingly. 

"  Such  preposterous  whims  make  a  woman 
odious,"  said  Grandcourt,  not  giving  way  in 
look  or  movement.  "  What  is  the  use  of  talking 
to  mad  people?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  foolish,  —  loneliness  has  made 
me  foolish  —  indulge  me."  Sobs  rose  as  she 
spoke.  "If  you  will  indulge  me  in  this  one  folly, 
I  will  be  very  meek,  —  I  will  never  trouble  you." 
She  burst  into  hysterical  crying,  and  said  again 
almost  with  a  scream,  —  "I  will  be  very  meek 
after  that." 

There  was  a  strange  mixture  of  acting  and 
reality  in  this  passion.  She  kept  hold  of  her  pur- 
pose as  a  child  might  tighten  its  hand  over  a 
small  stolen  thing,  crying  and  denying  all  the 
while.  Even  Grandcourt  was  wrought  upon  by 
surprise:  this  capricious  wish,  this  childish  vio- 
lence, was  as  unlike  Lydia's  bearing  as  it  was 
incongruous  with  her  person.  Both  had  always 
had  a  stamp  of  dignity  on  them.  Yet  she  seemed 
more  manageable  in  this  state  than  in  her  former 
attitude  of  defiance.  He  came  close  up  to  her 
again,  and  said,  in  his  low  imperious  tone,  "  Be 
quiet,  and  hear  what  I  tell  you.  I  will  never  for- 
give you  if  you  present  yourself  again  and  make 
a  scene." 

She  pressed  her  handkerchief  against  her  face, 
and  when  she  could  speak  firmly  said,  in  the 
muffled  voice  that  follows  sobbing,  "  I  will  not, 
—  if  you  will  let  me  have  my  way,  —  I  promise 
you  not  to  thrust  myself  forward  again.   I  have 


106  DANIEL  DERONDA 


never  broken  my  word  to  you  —  how  many  have 
you  broken  to  me?  When  you  gave  me  the 
diamonds  to  wear,  you  were  not  thinking  of 
having  another  wife.  And  I  now  give  them  up, 
—  I  don't  reproach  you,  —  I  only  ask  you  to  let 
me  give  them  up  in  my  own  way.  Have  I  not 
borne  it  well?  Everything  is  to  be  taken  away 
from  me,  and  when  I  ask  for  a  straw,  a  chip,  — 
you  deny  it  me."  She  had  spoken  rapidly,  but 
after  a  little  pause  she  said  more  slowly,  her  voice 
freed  from  its  muffled  tone:  "  I  will  not  bear  to 
have  it  denied  me." 

Grandcourt  had  a  baffling  sense  that  he  had  to 
deal  with  something  like  madness;  he  could 
only  govern  by  giving  way.  The  servant  came 
to  say  the  fly  was  ready.  When  the  door  was 
shut  again,  Grandcourt  said  sullenly,  "  We  are 
going  to  Ry elands,  then." 

"  They  shall  be  delivered  to  her  there,"  said 
Lydia,  with  decision. 

"  Very  well,  I  am  going."  He  felt  no  inclina- 
tion even  to  take  her  hand;  she  had  annoyed 
him  too  sorely.  But  now  that  she  had  gained  her 
point,  she  was  prepared  to  humble  herself  that 
she  might  propitiate  him. 

"  Forgive  me;  I  will  never  vex  you  again," 
she  said,  with  beseeching  looks.  Her  inward 
voice  said  distinctly,  —  "It  is  only  I  who  have 
to  forgive."  Yet  she  was  obliged  to  ask  for- 
giveness. 

"  You  had  better  keep  that  promise.  You 
have  made  me  feel  uncommonly  ill  with  your 
folly,"  said  Grandcourt,  apparently  choosing 
this  statement  as  the  strongest  possible  use  of 
language. 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  107 


"  Poor  thing!  "  said  Lydia,  with  a  faint  smile: 
was  he  aware  of  the  minor  fact  that  he  had  made 
her  feel  ill  this  morning? 

But  with  the  quick  transition  natural  to  her, 
she  was  now  ready  to  coax  him  if  he  would  let 
her,  that  they  might  part  in  some  degree  rec- 
onciled. She  ventured  to  lay  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  and  he  did  not  move  away  from  her: 
she  had  so  far  succeeded  in  alarming  him,  that  he 
was  not  sorry  for  these  proofs  of  returned 
subjection. 

"  Light  a  cigar,"  she  said  soothingly,  taking 
the  case  from  his  breast-pocket  and  opening  it. 

Amidst  such  caressing  signs  of  mutual  fear 
they  parted.  The  effect  that  clung  and  gnawed 
within  Grandcourt  was  a  sense  of  imperfect 
mastery. 


CHAPTER  IV 


V  A  wild  dedication  ot"  yourselves 

To  unpath'd  waters,  undream'd  shores. 

Shakespeare. 

ON  the  day  when  Gwendolen  Harleth  was 
married  and  became  Mrs.  Grandcourt, 
the  morning  was  clear  and  bright,  and 
while  the  sun  was  low  a  slight  frost  crisped  the 
leaves.  The  bridal  party  was  worth  seeing,  and 
half  Pennicote  tm-ned  out  to  see  it,  lining  the 
pathway  up  to  the  church.  An  old  friend  of  the 
Rector's  performed  the  marriage  ceremony,  the 
Rector  himself  acting  as  father,  to  the  great  ad- 
vantage of  the  procession.  Only  two  faces,  it 
was  remarked,  showed  signs  of  sadness,  —  Mrs. 
Davilow's  and  Anna's.  The  mother's  delicate 
eyelids  were  pink,  as  if  she  had  been  crying  half 
the  night ;  and  no  one  was  surprised  that,  splen- 
did as  the  match  was,  she  should  feel  the  parting 
from  a  daughter  who  was  the  flower  of  her  chil- 
dren and  of  her  own  life.  It  was  less  under- 
stood why  Anna  should  be  troubled  when  she  was 
being  so  well  set  off  by  the  bridesmaid's  dress. 
Every  one  else  seemed  to  reflect  the  brilliancy  of 
the  occasion,  —  the  bride  most  of  all.  Of  her  it 
was  agreed  that  as  to  figure  and  carriage  she  was 
worthy  to  be  a  "  lady  o'  title;  "  as  to  face,  per- 
haps it  might  be  thought  that  a  title  required 
something  more  rosy;  but  the  bridegroom  him- 
self not  being  fresh-coloured  —  being  indeed,  as 
the  miller's  wife  observed,  very  much  of  her  own 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  109 


husband's  complexion  —  the  match  was  the  more 
complete.  Anyhow  he  must  be  very  fond  of  her ; 
and  it  was  to  be  hoped  that  he  would  never  cast 
it  up  to  her  that  she  had  been  going  out  to  service 
as  a  governess,  and  her  mother  to  live  at  Sawyer's 
Cottage,  —  vicissitudes  which  had  been  much 
spoken  of  in  the  village.  The  miller's  daughter 
of  fourteen  could  not  believe  that  high  gentry 
behaved  badly  to  their  wives,  but  her  mother  in- 
structed her,  —  "  Oh,  child,  men 's  men:  gentle 
or  simple,  they  're  much  of  a  muchness.  I 've 
heard  my  mother  say  Squire  Pelton  used  to  take 
his  dogs  and  a  long  whip  into  his  wife's  room, 
and  flog  'em  there  to  frighten  her;  and  my 
mother  was  lady's-maid  there  at  the  very  time." 

"  That 's  unlucky  talk  for  a  wedding,  Mrs. 
Girdle,"  said  the  tailor.  "  A  quarrel  may  end 
wi'  the  whip,  but  it  begins  wi'  the  tongue,  and 
it 's  the  women  have  got  the  most  o'  that." 

"  The  Lord  gave  it  'em  to  use,  I  suppose,",  said 
Mrs.  Girdle;  "  He  never  meant  you  to  have  it 
all  your  own  way." 

"  By  what  I  can  make  out  from  the  gentle- 
man as  attends  to  the  grooming  at  Offendene," 
said  the  tailor,  "  this  Mr.  Grandcourt  has  won- 
derful little  tongue.  Everything  must  be  done 
dummy-like  without  his  ordering." 

"  Then  he 's  the  more  whip,  I  doubt,"  said 
Mrs.  Girdle.  "  She 's  got  tongue  enough,  I  war- 
rant her.    See,  there  they  come  out  together!  " 

"  What  wonderful  long  corners  she 's  got  to 
her  eyes!  "  said  the  tailor.  "  She  makes  you  feel 
comical  when  she  looks  at  you." 

Gwendolen,  in  fact,  never  showed  more  elas- 
ticity in  her  bearing,  more  lustre  in  her  long 


110         DANIEL  DERONDA 

brown  glance:  she  had  the  brilliancy  of  strong 
excitement,  which  will  sometimes  come  even  from 
pain.  It  was  not  pain,  however,  that  she  was 
feeling :  she  had  wrought  herself  up  to  much  the 
same  condition  as  that  in  which  she  stood  at  the 
gambling-table  when  Deronda  was  looking  at 
her,  and  she  began  to  lose.  There  was  enjoy- 
ment in  it:  whatever  uneasiness  a  growing 
conscience  had  created,  was  disregarded  as  an 
ailment  might  have  been,  amidst  the  gratification 
of  that  ambitious  vanity  and  desire  for  luxury 
within  her  which  it  would  take  a  great  deal  of 
slow  poisoning  to  kill.  This  morning  she  could 
not  have  said  truly  that  she  repented  her  accept- 
ance of  Grandcourt,  or  that  any  fears  in  hazy 
perspective  could  hinder  the  glowing  effects  of 
the  immediate  scene  in  which  she  was  the  central 
object.    That  she  was  doing  something  wrong 

—  that  a  punishment  might  be  hanging  over  her 

—  that  the  woman  to  whom  she  had  given  a 
promise  and  broken  it,  was  thinking  of  her  in  bit- 
terness and  misery  with  a  just  reproach  —  that 
Deronda  with  his  way  of  looking  into  things  very 
likely  despised  her  for  marrying  Grandcourt, 
as  he  had  despised  her  for  gambling  —  above  all, 
that  the  cord  which  united  her  with  this  lover  and 
which  she  had  hitherto  held  by  the  hand,  was  now 
being  flung  over  her  neck,  —  all  this  yeasty 
mingling  of  dimly  understood  facts  with  vague 
but  deep  impressions,  and  with  images  half  real, 
half  fantastic,  had  been  disturbing  her  during 
the  weeks  of  her  engagement.  Was  that  agitat- 
ing experience  nullified  this  morning?  No:  it 
was  surmounted  and  thrust  down  with  a  sort  of 
exulting  defiance  as  she  felt  herself  standing  at 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  111 


the  game  of  life  with  many  eyes  upon  her,  daring 
everything  to  win  much  —  or  if  to  lose,  still  with 
eclat  and  a  sense  of  importance.  But  this  morn- 
ing a  losing  destiny  for  herself  did  not  press 
upon  her  as  a  fear:  she  thought  that  she  was 
entering  on  a  fuller  power  of  managing  circum- 
stance, —  with  all  the  official  strength  of  mar- 
riage, which  some  women  made  so  poor  a  use  of. 
That  intoxication  of  youthful  egoism  out  of 
which  she  had  been  shaken  by  trouble,  humilia- 
tion, and  a  new  sense  of  culpability,  had  re- 
turned upon  her  under  the  newly  fed  strength  of 
the  old  fumes.  She  did  not  in  the  least  present 
the  ideal  of  the  tearful,  tremulous  bride.  Poor 
Gwendolen,  whom  some  had  judged  much  too 
forward  and  instructed  in  the  world's  ways!  — 
with  her  erect  head  and  elastic  footstep  she  was 
walking  amid  illusions;  and  yet,  too,  there  was 
an  under-consciousness  in  her  that  she  was  a 
little  intoxicated. 

"  Thank  God  you  bear  it  so  well,  my  darling! " 
said  Mrs.  Davilow,  when  she  had  helped  Gwen- 
dolen to  doff  her  bridal  white  and  put  on  her 
travelling  dress.  All  the  trembling  had  been 
done  by  the  poor  mother,  and  her  agitation 
urged  Gwendolen  doubly  to  take  the  morning 
as  if  it  were  a  triumph. 

"  Why,  you  might  have  said  that,  if  I  had 
been  going  to  Mrs.  Mompert's,  you  dear,  sad,  in- 
corrigible mamma!  "  said  Gwendolen,  just  put- 
ting her  hands  to  her  mother's  cheeks  with 
laughing  tenderness,  then  retreating  a  little  and 
spreading  out  her  arms  as  if  to  exhibit  herself. 
"Here  am  I,  —  Mrs.  Grandcourt!  what  else 
would  you  have  me  but  what  I  am  sure  to  be? 


112  DANIEL  DERONDA 


You  know  you  were  ready  to  die  with  vexation 
when  you  thought  that  I  would  not  be  Mrs. 
Grandcourt." 

"  Hush,  hush,  my  child,  for  heaven's  sake!  " 
said  Mrs.  Davilow,  almost  in  a  whisper.  "  How 
can  I  help  feeling  it  when  I  am  parting  from 
you !  But  I  can  bear  anything  gladly  if  you  are 
happy." 

"  Not  gladly,  mamma,  no!  "  said  Gwendolen, 
shaking  her  head  with  a  bright  smile.  "  Will- 
ingly would  you  bear  it,  but  always  sorrowfully. 
Sorrowing  is  your  sauce;  you  can  take  noth- 
ing without  it."  Then,  clasping  her  mother's 
shoulders  and  raining  kisses  first  on  one  cheek 
and.  then  on  the  other  between  her  words,  she  said 
gayly,  "  And  you  shall  sorrow  over  my  having 
everything  at  my  beck  —  and  enjoying  every- 
thing gloriously  —  splendid  houses  —  and  horses 
—  and  diamonds,  I  shall  have  diamonds  —  and 
going  to  court  —  and  being  Lady  Certainly  — 
and  Lady  Perhaps  —  and  grand  here  —  and 
tantivy  there  —  and  always  loving  you  better 
than  anybody  else  in  the  world." 

"  My  sweet  child!  —  But  I  shall  not  be  jeal- 
ous if  you  love  your  husband  better ;  and  he  will 
expect  to  be  first." 

Gwendolen  thrust  out  her  lips  and  chin  with  a 
pretty  grimace,  saying,  "  Rather  a  ridiculous  ex- 
pectation. However,  I  don't  mean  to  treat  him 
ill,  unless  he  deserves  it." 

Then  the  two  fell  into  a  clinging  embrace,  and 
Gwendolen  could  not  hinder  a  rising  sob  when 
she  said,  "  I  wish  you  were  going  with  me, 
mamma." 

But  the  slight  dew  on  her  long  eyelashes 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  113 


only  made  her  the  more  charming  when  she 
gave  her  hand  to  Grandcourt  to  be  led  to  the 
carriage. 

The  Rector  looked  in  on  her  to  give  a  final 
"Good-by;  God  bless  you;  we  shall  see  you 
again  before  long,"  and  then  returned  to  Mrs. 
Davilow  saying  half  cheerfully,  half  solemnly, — 

"  Let  us  be  thankful,  Fanny.  She  is  in  a  posi- 
tion well  suited  to  her,  and  beyond  what  I  should 
have  dared  to  hope  for.  And  few  women  can 
have  been  chosen  more  entirely  for  their  own 
sake.  You  should  feel  yourself  a  happy 
mother." 

There  was  a  railway  journey  of  some  fifty 
miles  before  the  new  husband  and  wife  reached 
the  station  near  Ryelands.  The  sky  had  veiled 
itself  since  the  morning,  and  it  was  hardly  more 
than  twilight  when  they  entered  the  park-gates, 
but  still  Gwendolen,  looking  out  of  the  carriage- 
window  as  they  drove  rapidly  along,  could  see 
the  grand  outlines  and  the  nearer  beauties  of  the 
scene,  —  the  long  winding  drive  bordered  with 
evergreens  backed  by  huge  gray  stems ;  then  the 
opening  of  wide  grassy  spaces  and  undulations 
studded  with  dark  clumps;  till  at  last  came  a 
wide  level  where  the  white  house  could  be  seen, 
with  a  hanging  wood  for  a  background  and  the 
rising  and  sinking  balustrade  of  a  terrace  in 
front. 

Gwendolen  had  been  at  her  liveliest  during 
the  journey,  chatting  incessantly,  ignoring  any 
change  in  their  mutual  position  since  yesterday ; 
and  Grandcourt  had  been  rather  ecstatically 
quiescent,  while  she  turned  his  gentle  seizure  of 
her  hand  into  a  grasp  of  his  hand  by  both  hers, 

VOL.  XIII  —  8 


114         DANIEL  DERONDA 


with  an  increased  vivacity  as  of  a  kitten  that  will 
not  sit  quiet  to  be  petted.  She  was  really  getting 
somewhat  febrile  in  her  excitement;  and  now  in 
this  drive  through  the  park  her  usual  suscepti- 
bility to  changes  of  light  and  scenery  helped  to 
make  her  heart  palpitate  newly.  Was  it  at  the 
novelty  simply,  or  the  almost  incredible  fulfil- 
ment about  to  be  given  to  her  girlish  dreams  of 
being  "  somebody,"  —  walking  through  her  own 
furlong  of  corridors  and  under  her  own  ceilings 
of  an  out-of -sight  loftiness,  where  her  own 
painted  Spring  was  shedding  painted  flowers, 
and  her  own  foreshortened  Zephyrs  were  blow- 
ing their  trumpets  over  her;  while  her  own  ser- 
vants, lackeys  in  clothing  but  men  in  bulk  and 
shape,  were  as  naught  in  her  presence,  and 
revered  the  propriety  of  her  insolence  to  them, 
—  being,  in  short,  the  heroine  of  an  admired 
play  without  the  pains  of  art?  Was  it  alone  the 
closeness  of  this  fulfilment  which  made  her  heart 
flutter?  or  was  it  some  dim  forecast,  the  in- 
sistent penetration  of  suppressed  experience, 
mixing  the  expectation  of  a  triumph  with  the 
dread  of  a  crisis?  Hers  was  one  of  the  natures 
in  which  exultation  inevitably  carries  an  infu- 
sion of  dread  ready  to  curdle  and  declare  itself. 

She  fell  silent  in  spite  of  herself  as  they  ap- 
proached the  gates,  and  when  her  husband  said, 
"  Here  we  are  at  home!  "  and  for  the  first  time 
kissed  her  on  the  lips,  she  hardly  knew  of  it :  it 
was  no  more  than  the  passive  acceptance  of  a 
greeting  in  the  midst  of  an  absorbing  show. 
Was  not  all  her  hurrying  life  of  the  last  three 
months  a  show,  in  which  her  consciousness  was  a 
wondering  spectator?   After  the  half -wilful  ex- 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  115 


citement  of  the  day,  a  numbness  had  come  over 
her  personahty. 

But  there  was  a  brilhant  hght  in  the  hall,  — 
warmth,  matting,  carpets,  full-length  portraits, 
Olympian  statues,  assiduous  servants.  Not 
many  servants,  however:  only  a  few  from  Dip- 
low  in  addition  to  those  constantly  in  charge  of 
the  house ;  and  Gwendolen's  new  maid,  who  had 
come  with  her,  was  taken  under  guidance  by  the 
housekeeper.  Gwendolen  felt  herself  being  led 
by  Grandcourt  along  a  subtly  scented  corridor, 
then  into  an  anteroom  where  she  saw  an  open 
doorway  sending  out  a  rich  glow  of  light  and 
colour. 

"  These  are  our  dens,"  said  Grandcourt. 
"  You  will  like  to  be  quiet  here  till  dinner.  We 
shall  dine  early." 

He  pressed  her  hand  to  his  lips  and  moved 
away,  more  in  love  than  he  had  ever  expected 
to  be. 

Gwendolen,  yielding  up  her  hat  and  mantle, 
threw  herself  into  a  chair  by  the  glowing  hearth, 
and  saw  herself  repeated  in  glass  panels  with  all 
her  faint-green  satin  surroundings.  The  house- 
keeper had  passed  into  this  boudoir  from  the  ad- 
joining dressing-room,  and  seemed  disposed  to 
linger,  Gwendolen  thought,  in  order  to  look  at 
the  new  mistress  of  Ryelands,  who  however, 
being  impatient  for  solitude,  said  to  her,  "  Will 
you  tell  Hudson  when  she  has  put  out  my 
dress  to  leave  everything?  I  shall  not  want  her 
again,  unless  I  ring." 

The  housekeeper,  coming  forward,  said, 
"  Here  is  a  packet,  madam,  which  I  was  ordered 
to  give  into  nobody's  hands  but  yours,  when  you 


116  DANIEL  DERONDA 


were  alone.  The  person  who  brought  it  said  it 
was  a  present  particularly  ordered  by  Mr. 
Grandcourt ;  but  he  was  not  to  know  of  its  arri- 
val till  he  saw  you  wear  it.  Excuse  me,  madam ; 
I  felt  it  right  to  obey  orders." 

Gwendolen  took  the  packet  and  let  it  lie  on 
her  lap  till  she  heard  the  doors  close.  It  came 
into  her  mind  that  the  packet  might  contain  the 
diamonds  which  Grandcourt  had  spoken  of  as 
being  deposited  somewhere  and  to  be  given  to  her 
on  her  marriage.  In  this  moment  of  confused 
feeling  and  creeping  luxurious  languor  she  was 
glad  of  this  diversion,  —  glad  of  such  an  event 
as  having  her  own  diamonds  to  try  on. 

Within  all  the  sealed  paper  coverings  was  a 
box,  but  within  the  box  there  was  a  jewel-case; 
and  now  she  felt  no  doubt  that  she  had  the  dia- 
monds. But  on  opening  the  case,  in  the  same 
instant  that  she  saw  their  gleam  she  saw  a  letter 
lying  above  them.  She  knew  the  handwriting 
of  the  address.  It  was  as  if  an  adder  had  lain  on 
them.  Her  heart  gave  a  leap  which  seemed  to 
have  spent  all  her  strength;  and  as  she  opened 
the  bit  of  thin  paper,  it  shook  with  the  trembling 
of  her  hands.  But  it  was  legible  as  print,  and 
thrust  its  words  upon  her. 

"  These  diamonds,  which  were  once  given  with  ardent 
love  to  Lydia  Glasher,  she  passes  on  to  you.  You  have 
broken  your  word  to  her,  that  you  might  possess  what 
was  hers.  Perhaps  you  think  of  being  happy,  as  she 
once  was,  and  of  having  beautiful  children  such  as  hers, 
who  will  thrust  hers  aside.  God  is  too  just  for  that. 
The  man  you  have  married  has  a  withered  heart.  His 
best  young  love  was  mine;  you  could  not  take  that 
from  me  when  you  took  the  rest.    It  is  dead ;  but  I  am 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  117 


the  grave  in  which  your  chance  of  happiness  is  buried 
as  well  as  mine.  You  had  your  warning.  You  have 
chosen  to  injure  me  and  my  children.  He  had  meant 
to  marry  me.  He  would  have  married  me  at  last,  if 
you  had  not  broken  your  word.  You  will  have  your 
punishment.    I  desire  it  with  all  my  soul. 

"  Will  you  give  him  this  letter  to  set  him  against 
me  and  ruin  us  more, — me  and  my  children  .^^  Shall  you 
like  to  stand  before  your  husband  with  these  diamonds 
on  you,  and  these  words  of  mine  in  his  thoughts  and 
yours  .^^  Will  he  think  you  have  any  right  to  complain 
when  he  has  made  you  miserable.^  You  took  him  with 
your  eyes  open.  The  willing  wrong  you  have  done  me 
will  be  your  curse." 

It  seemed  at  first  as  if  Gwendolen's  eyes  were 
spell-bound  in  reading  the  horrible  words  of  the 
letter  over  and  over  again  as  a  doom  of  penance ; 
but  suddenly  a  new  spasm  of  terror  made  her 
lean  forward  and  stretch  out  the  paper  towards 
the  fire,  lest  accusation  and  proof  at  once  should 
meet  all  eyes.  It  flew  like  a  feather  from  her 
trembling  fingers,  and  was  caught  up  in  the 
great  draught  of  flame.  In  her  movement  the 
casket  fell  on  the  floor,  and  the  diamonds  rolled 
out.  She  took  no  notice,  but  fell  back  in  her 
chair  again  helpless.  She  could  not  see  the  re- 
flections of  herself  then :  they  were  like  so  many 
women  petrified  white ;  but  coming  near  herself, 
you  might  have  seen  the  tremor  in  her  lips  and 
hands.  She  sat  so  for  a  long  while,  knowing 
little  more  than  that  she  was  feeling  ill,  and  that 
those  written  words  kept  repeating  themselves 
in  her. 

Truly  here  were  poisoned  gems,  and  the  poison 
had  entered  into  this  poor  young  creature. 


118         DANIEL  DERONDA 


After  that  long  while  there  was  a  tap  at  the 
door,  and  Grandeourt  entered,  dressed  for  din- 
ner. The  sight  of  him  brought  a  new  nervous 
shock,  and  Gwendolen  screamed  again  and  again 
with  hysterical  violence.  He  had  expected  to  see 
her  dressed  and  smiling,  ready  to  be  led  down. 
He  saw  her  pallid,  shrieking  as  it  seemed,  with 
terror,  the  jewels  scattered  around  her  on  the 
floor.   Was  it  a  fit  of  madness? 

In  some  form  or  other  the  Furies  had  crossed 
his  threshold. 


CHAPTER  V 


"In  all  ages  it  hath  been  a  favourite  text  that  a  potent  love  hath  the 
nature  of  an  isolated  fatality,  whereto  the  mind's  opinions  and  wonted 
resolves  are  altogether  alien,  as,  for  example,  Daphnis  his  frenzy, 
wherein  it  had  little  availed  him  to  have  been  convinced  of  HeracHtus 
his  doctrine;  or  the  philtre-bred  passion  of  Tristan,  who,  though  he 
had  been  as  deep  as  Duns  Scotus,  would  have  had  his  reasoning  marred 
by  that  cup  too  much ;  or  Romeo  in  his  sudden  taking  for  JuHet,  wherein 
any  objections  he  might  have  held  against  Ptolemy  had  made  httle  dif- 
ference to  his  discourse  under  the  balcony.  Yet  all  love  is  not  such, 
even  though  potent;  nay,  this  passion  hath  as  large  scope  as  any  for 
allying  itself  with  every  operation  of  the  soul :  so  that  it  shall  acknowl- 
edge an  effect  from  the  imagined  light  of  unproven  firmaments,  and 
have  its  scale  set  to  the  grander  orbits  of  what  hath  been  and  shall  be." 

DERONDA,  on  his  return  to  town,  could 
assure  Sir  Hugo  of  his  having  lodged 
in  Grandcourt's  mind  a  distinct  under- 
standing that  he  could  get  fifty  thousand  pounds 
by  giving  up  a  prospect  which  was  probably  dis- 
tant, and  not  absolutely  certain;  but  he  had  no 
further  sign  of  Grandcourt's  disposition  in  the 
matter  than  that  he  was  evidently  inclined  to 
keep  up  friendly  communications. 

"  And  what  did  you  think  of  the  future  bride 
on  a  nearer  survey?  "  said  Sir  Hugo. 

"  I  thought  better  of  her  than  I  did  at  Leu- 
bronn.  Roulette  was  not  a  good  setting  for  her ; 
it  brought  out  something  of  the  demon.  At  Dip- 
low  she  seemed  much  more  womanly  and  attract- 
ive, —  less  hard  and  self-piossessed.  I  thought 
her  mouth  and  eyes  had  quite  a  different 
expression." 

"  Don't  flirt  with  her  too  much,  Dan,"  said  Sir 
Hugo,  meaning  to  be  agreeably  playful.    "  If 


120  DANIEL  DERONDA 


you  make  Grandcourt  savage  when  they  come 
to  the  Abbey  at  Christmas,  it  will  interfere  with 
my  affairs." 

"  I  can  stay  in  town,  sir." 

"  No,  no.  Lady  Mallinger  and  the  children 
can't  do  without  you  at  Christmas.  Only  don't 
make  mischief,  —  unless  you  can  get  up  a  duel, 
and  manage  to  shoot  Grandcourt,  which  might 
be  worth  a  little  inconvenience." 

"  I  don't  think  you  ever  saw  me  flirt,"  said 
Deronda,  not  amused. 

"Oh,  haven't  I,  though?"  said  Sir  Hugo, 
provokingly.  "  You  are  always  looking  ten- 
derly at  the  women,  and  talking  to  them  in  a 
Jesuitical  way.  You  are  a  dangerous  young  fel- 
low, —  a  kind  of  Lovelace  who  will  make  the 
Clarissas  run  after  you  instead  of  your  running 
after  them." 

What  was  the  use  of  being  exasperated  at  a 
tasteless  joke?  —  only  the  exasperation  comes 
before  the  reflection  on  utility.  Few  friendly 
remarks  are  more  annoying  than  the  information 
that  we  are  always  seeming  to  do  what  we  never 
mean  to  do.  Sir  Hugo's  notion  of  flirting,  it 
was  to  be  hoped,  was  rather  peculiar;  for  his 
own  part,  Deronda  was  sure  that  he  had  never 
flirted.  But  he  was  glad  that  the  baronet  had  no 
knowledge  about  the  repurchase  of  Gwendolen's 
necklace  to  feed  his  taste  for  this  kind  of  rallying. 

He  would  be  on  his  guard  in  future;  for  ex- 
ample, in  his  behaviour  at  Mrs.  Meyrick's,  where 
he  was  about  to  pay  his  first  visit  since  his  arrival 
from  Leubronn.  For  Mirah  was  certainly  a 
creature  in  whom  it  was  diflicult  not  to  show  a 
tender  kind  of  interest  both  by  looks  and  speech. 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  121 


Mrs.  Meyrick  had  not  failed  to  send  Deronda, 
a  report  of  Mirah's  well-being  in  her  family. 
"  We  are  getting  fonder  of  her  every  day,"  she 
had  written.  "  At  breakfast-time  we  all  look 
towards  the  door  with  expectation  to  see  her 
come  in;  and  we  watch  her  and  listen  to  her  as 
if  she  were  a  native  from  a  new  country.  I  have 
not  heard  a  word  from  her  lips  that  gives  me  a 
doubt  about  her.  She  is  quite  contented  and  full 
of  gratitude.  My  daughters  are  learning  from 
her,  and  they  hope  to  get  her  other  pupils;  for 
she  is  anxious  not  to  eat  the  bread  of  idleness, 
but  to  work,  like  my  girls.  Mab  says  our  life 
has  become  like  a  fairy  tale,  and  all  she  is  afraid 
of  is  that  Mirah  will  turn  into  a  nightingale 
again  and  fly  away  from  us.  Her  voice  is  just 
perfect :  not  loud  and  strong,  but  searching  and 
melting,  like  the  thoughts  of  what  has  been. 
That  is  the  way  old  people  like  me  feel  a  beau- 
tiful voice." 

But  Mrs.  Meyrick  did  not  enter  into  particu- 
lars which  would  have  required  her  to  say  that 
Amy  and  Mab,  who  had  accompanied  Mirah  to 
the  synagogue,  found  the  Jewish  faith  less  recon- 
cilable with  their  wishes  in  her  case  than  in  that 
of  Scott's  Rebecca.  They  kept  silence  out  of 
delicacy  to  Mirah,  with  whom  her  religion  was 
too  tender  a  subject  to  be  touched  lightly;  but 
after  a  while  Amy,  who  was  much  of  a  practical 
reformer,  could  not  restrain  a  question. 

"  Excuse  me,  Mirah,  but  does  it  seem  quite 
right  to  you  that  the  women  should  sit  behind 
rails  in  a  gallery  apart?  " 

"  Yes,  I  never  thought  of  anything  else,"  said 
Mirah,  with  mild  surprise. 


122  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  And  you  like  better  to  see  the  men  with  their 
hats  on?  "  said  Mab,  cautiously  proposing  the 
smallest  item  of  difference. 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  like  what  I  have  always  seen 
there,  because  it  brings  back  to  me  the  same  feel- 
ings, —  the  feelings  I  would  not  part  with  for 
anything  else  in  the  world." 

After  this,  any  criticism,  whether  of  doctrine 
or  of  practice,  would  have  seemed  to  these  gen- 
erous little  people  an  inhospitable  cruelty. 
Mirah's  religion  was  of  one  fibre  with  her 
affections,  and  had  never  presented  itself  to  her 
as  a  set  of  propositions. 

"  She  says  herself  she  is  a  very  bad  Jewess, 
and  does  not  half  know  her  people's  religion," 
said  Amy,  when  Mirah  was  gone  to  bed.  "  Per- 
haps it  would  gradually  melt  away  from  her,  and 
she  would  pass  into  Christianity  like  the  rest  of 
the  world,  if  she  got  to  love  us  very  much,  and 
never  found  her  mother.  It  is  so  strange  to  be 
of  the  Jews'  religion  now." 

"  Oh,  oh,  oh!  "  cried  Mab.  "  I  wish  I  were- 
not  such  a  hideous  Christian.  How  can  an 
ugly  Christian  who  is  always  dropping  her 
work  convert  a  beautiful  Jewess  who  has  not  a 
fault?" 

"  It  may  be  wicked  of  me,"  said  shrewd  Kate, 
"  but  I  cannot  help  wishing  that  her  mother  may 
not  be  found.  There  might  be  something 
unpleasant." 

"  I  don't  think  it,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Mey- 
rick.  "  I  believe  Mirah  is  cut  out  after  the  pat- 
tern of  her  mother.  And  what  a  joy  it  would  be 
to  her  to  have  such  a  daughter  brought  back 
again!    But  a  mother's  feelings  are  not  worth 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  123 


reckoning,  I  suppose"  (she  shot  a  mischievous 
glance  at  her  own  daughters),  "and  a  dead 
mother  is  worth  more  than  a  living  one?  " 

"  Well,  and  so  she  may  be,  little  mother,"  said 
Kate;  "  but  we  would  rather  hold  you  cheaper, 
and  have  you  alive." 

Not  only  the  Meyricks,  whose  various  knowl- 
edge had  been  acquired  by  the  irregular  foraging 
to  which  clever  girls  have  usually  been  reduced, 
but  Deronda  himself,  with  all  his  masculine  in- 
struction, had  been  roused  by  this  apparition  of 
Mirah  to  the  'eonsciousness  of  knowing  hardly 
anything  about  modern  Judaism  or  the  inner 
Jewish  history.  The  Chosen  People  have  been 
commonly  treated  as  a  people  chosen  for  the  sake 
of  somebody  else;  and  their  thinking  as  some- 
thing (no  matter  exactly  what)  that  ought  to 
have  been  entirely  otherwise;  and  Deronda,  like 
his  neighbours,  had  regarded  Judaism  as  a  sort 
of  eccentric  fossilized  form  which  an  accom- 
plished man  might  dispense  with  studying,  and 
leave  to  specialists.  But  Mirah,  with  her  terri- 
fied flight  from  one  parent,  and  her  yearning 
after  the  other,  had  flashed  on  him  the  hitherto 
neglected  reality  that  Judaism  was  something 
still  throbbing  in  human  lives,  still  making  for 
them  the  only  conceivable  vesture  of  the  world; 
and  in  the  idling  excursion  on  which  he  imme- 
diately afterwards  set  out  with  Sir  Hugo  he 
began  to  look  for  the  outsides  of  synagogues,  and 
the  titles  of  books  about  the  Jews.  This  waken- 
ing of  a  new  interest  —  this  passing  from  the 
supposition  that  we  hold  the  right  opinions  on  a 
subject  we  are  careless  about,  to  a  sudden  care 
for  it,  and  a  sense  that  our  opinions  were  igno- 


124  DANIEL  DERONDA 


ranee  —  is  an  effeetual  remedy  for  ennui j  which 
unhappily  cannot  be  secured  on  a  physician's 
prescription;  but  Deronda  had  carried  it  with 
him,  and  endured  his  weeks  of  lounging  all  the 
better.  It  was  on  this  journey  that  he  first  en- 
tered a  Jewish  synagogue  —  at  Frankfort  — 
where  his  party  rested  on  a  Friday.  In  explor- 
ing the  Juden-gasse,  which  he  had  seen  long  be- 
fore, he  remembered  well  enough  its  picturesque 
old  houses;  what  his  eyes  chiefly  dwelt  on  now 
were  the  human  types  there;  and  his  thought, 
busily  connecting  them  with  the  past  phases  of 
their  race,  stirred  that  fibre  of  historic  sympathy 
which  had  helped  to  determine  in  him  certain 
traits  worth  mentioning  for  those  who  are  inter- 
ested in  his  future.  True,  when  a  young  man 
has  a  fine  person,  no  eccentricity  of  manners,  the 
education  of  a  gentleman,  and  a  present  in- 
come, it  is  not  customary  to  feel  a  prying  curi- 
osity about  his  way  of  thinking  or  his  peculiar 
tastes.  He  may  very  well  be  settled  in  life  as  an 
agreeable  clever  young  fellow  without  passing  a 
special  examination  on  those  heads.  Later,  when 
he  is  getting  rather  slovenly  and  portly,  his 
peculiarities  are  more  distinctly  discerned,  and 
it  is  taken  as  a  mercy  if  they  are  not  highly  ob- 
jectionable. But  any  one  wishing  to  under- 
stand the  effect  of  after  events  on  Deronda 
should  know  a  little  more  of  what  he  was  at 
five-and-twenty  than  was  evident  in  ordinary 
intercourse. 

It  happened  that  the  very  vividness  of  his  im- 
pressions had  often  made  him  the  more  enig- 
matic to  his  friends,  and  had  contributed  to  an 
apparent  indefiniteness  in  his  sentiments.  His 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  125 


early-wakened  sensibility  and  reflectiveness  had 
developed  into  a  many-sided  sympathy,  which 
threatened  to  hinder  any  persistent  course  of 
action:  as  soon  as  he  took  up  any  antagonism, 
though  only  in  thought,  he  seemed  to  himself 
like  the  Sabine  warriors  in  the  memorable  story, 
—  with  nothing  to  meet  his  spear  but  flesh  of  his 
flesh,  and  objects  that  he  loved.  His  imagina- 
tion had  so  wrought  itself  to  the  habit  of  seeing 
things  as  they  probably  appeared  to  others,  that 
a  strong  partisanship,  unless  it  were  against  an 
immediate  oppression,  had  become  an  insincerity 
for  him.  His  plenteous,  flexible  sympathy  had 
ended  by  falling  into  one  current  with  that  re- 
flective analysis  which  tends  to  neutralize  sym- 
pathy. Few  men  were  able  to  keep  themselves 
clearer  of  vices  than  he;  yet  he  hated  vices 
mildly,  being  used  to  think  of  them  less  in  the 
abstract  than  as  a  part  of  mixed  human  natures 
having  an  individual  history,  which  it  was  the 
bent  of  his  mind  to  trace  with  understanding  and 
pity.  With  the  same  innate  balance  he  was  fer- 
vidly democratic  in  his  feeling  for  the  multitude, 
and  yet,  through  his  affections  and  imagination, 
intensely  conservative;  voracious  of  specula- 
tions on  government  and  religion,  yet  loath  to 
part  with  long-sanctioned  forms  which,  for  him, 
were  quick  with  memories  and  sentiments  that 
no  argument  could  lay  dead.  We  fall  on  the 
leaning  side ;  and  Deronda  suspected  himself  of 
loving  too  well  the  losing  causes  of  the  world. 
Martyrdom  changes  sides,  and  he  was  in  danger 
of  changing  with  it,  having  a  strong  repug- 
nance to  taking  up  that  clew  of  success  which  the 
order  of  the  world  often  forces  upon  us  and 


126  DANIEL  DERONDA 


makes  it  treason  against  the  common  weal  to 
reject.  And  yet  his  fear  of  falling  into  an  un- 
reasoning narrow  hatred  made  a  check  for  him: 
he  apologized  for  the  heirs  of  privilege;  he 
shrank  with  dislike  from  the  loser's  bitterness 
and  the  denunciatory  tone  of  the  unaccepted  in- 
novator. A  too  reflective  and  diffusive  sympa- 
thy was  in  danger  of  paralyzing  in  him  that  in- 
dignation against  wrong  and  that  selectness  of 
fellowship  which  are  the  conditions  of  mora] 
force;  and  in  the  last  few  years  of  confirmed 
manhood  he  had  become  so  keenly  aware  of  this 
that  what  he  most  longed  for  was  either  some 
external  event,  or  some  inward  light,  that  would 
urge  him  into  a  definite  line  of  action,  and  com- 
press his  wandering  energy.  He  was  ceasing  to 
care  for  knowledge,  —  he  had  no  ambition  for 
practice,  —  unless  they  could  both  be  gathered 
up  into  one  current  with  his  emotions;  and  he 
dreaded,  as  if  it  were  a  dwelling-place  of  lost 
souls,  that  dead  anatomy  of  culture  which  turns 
the  universe  into  a  mere  ceaseless  answer  to 
queries,  and  knows,  not  everything,  but  every- 
thing else  about  everything,  —  as  if  one  should 
be  ignorant  of  nothing  concerning  the  scent  of 
violets  except  the  scent  itself  for  which  one  had 
no  nostril.  But  how  and  whence  was  the  needed 
event  to  come?  —  the  influence  that  would  jus- 
tify partiality,  and  make  him  what  he  longed  to 
be  yet  was  unable  to  make  himself,  —  an  organic 
part  of  social  life,  instead  of  roaming  in  it  like  a 
yearning  disembodied  spirit,  stirred  with  a 
vague  social  passion,  but  without  fixed  local 
habitation  to  render  fellowship  real?  To  make  a 
little  difference  for  the  better  was  what  he  was 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  127 


not  contented  to  live  without;  but  how  make  it? 
It  is  one  thing  to  see  your  road,  another  to  cut  it. 
He  found  some  of  the  fault  in  his  birth  and  the 
way  he  had  been  brought  up,  which  had  laid  no 
special  demands  on  him  and  given  him  no  fixed 
relationship  except  one  of  a  doubtful  kind;  but 
he  did  not  attempt  to  hide  from  himself  that  he 
had  fallen  into  a  meditative  numbness,  and  was 
gliding  farther  and  farther  from  that  life  of 
practically  energetic  sentiment  which  he  would 
have  proclaimed  (if  he  had  been  inclined  to  pro- 
claim anything)  to  be  the  best  of  all  life,  and 
for  himself  the  only  life  worth  living.  He 
wanted  some  way  of  keeping  emotion  and  its 
progeny  of  sentiments,  —  which  make  the 
savours  of  life,  —  substantial  and  strong  in  the 
face  of  a  reflectiveness  that  threatened  to  nullify 
all  differences.  To  pound  the  objects  of  senti- 
ment into  smaU  dust,  yet  keep  sentiment  alive 
and  active,  was  something  like  the  famous  recipe 
for  making  cannon,  —  to  first  take  a  round  hole 
and  then  enclose  it  with  iron;  whatever  you  do, 
keeping  fast  hold  of  your  round  hole.  Yet  how 
distinguish  what  our  will  may  wisely  save  in 
its  completeness,  from  the  heaping  of  cat- 
mummies  and  the  expensive  cult  of  enshrined 
putrefactions? 

Something  like  this  was  the  common  under- 
current in  Deronda's  mind,  while  he  was  reading 
law,  or  imperfectly  attending  to  polite  conver- 
sation. Meanwhile  he  had  not  set  about  one 
function  in  particular  with  zeal  and  steadiness. 
Not  an  admirable  experience,  to  be  proposed 
as  an  ideal;  but  a  form  of  struggle  before 
break  of  day  which  some  young  men  since  the 


128  DANIEL  DERONDA 


patriarch  have  had  to  pass  through,  with  more 
or  less  of  bruising  if  not  laming. 

I  have  said  that  under  his  calm  exterior  he 
had  a  fervour  which  made  him  easily  feel 
the  presence  of  poetry  in  every-day  events ;  and 
the  forms  of  the  Juden-gasse,  rousing  the  sense 
of  union  with  what  is  remote,  set  him  musing 
on  two  elements  of  our  historic  life  which  that 
sense  raises  into  the  same  region  of  poetry,  — 
the  faint  beginnings  of  faiths  and  institutions, 
and  their  obscure  lingering  decay ;  the  dust  and 
withered  remnants  with  which  they  are  apt  to 
be  covered,  only  enhancing  for  the  awakened 
perception  the  impressiveness  either  of  a  sub- 
limely penetrating  life,  as  in  the  twin  green 
leaves  that  will  become  the  sheltering  tree,  or 
of  a  pathetic  inheritance  in  which  all  the 
grandeur  and  the  glory  have  become  a  sorrow- 
ing memory. 

This  imaginative  stirring,  as  he  turned  out  of 
the  Juden-gasse,  and  continued  to  saunter  in  the 
warm  evening  air,  meaning  to  find  his  way  to 
the  synagogue,  neutralized  the  repellent  effect 
of  certain  ugly  little  incidents  on  his  way. 
Turning  into  an  old  book- shop  to  ask  the  exact 
time  of  service  at  the  synagogue,  he  was  affec- 
tionately directed  by  a  precocious  Jewish  youth, 
who  entered  cordially  into  his  wanting  not  the 
fine  new  building  of  the  reformed  but  the  old 
Rabbinical  school  of  the  orthodox;  and  then 
cheated  him  like  a  pure  Teuton,  only  with  more 
amenity,  in  his  charge  for  a  book  quite  out  of 
request  as  one  "  nicht  so  leicht  zu  bekommen." 
Meanwhile  at  the  opposite  counter  a  deaf  and 
grisly  tradesman  was  casting  a  flinty  look  at 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  129 


certain  cards,  apparently  combining  advantages 
of  business  with  religion,  and  shoutingly  pro- 
posed to  him  in  Jew-dialect  by  a  dingy  man  in 
a  tall  coat  hanging  from  neck  to  heel,  a  bag  in 
hand,  and  a  broad  low  hat  surmounting  his 
chosen  nose,  —  who  had  no  sooner  disappeared 
than  another  dingy  man  of  the  same  pattern 
issued  from  the  backward  glooms  of  the  shop 
and  also  shouted  in  the  same  dialect.  In  fact, 
-  Deronda  saw  various  queer-looking  Israelites 
not  altogether  without  guile,  and  just  distin- 
guishable from  queer-looking  Christians  of  the 
same  mixed  morale.  In  his  anxiety  about 
Mirah's  relatives,  he  had  lately  been  thinking 
of  vulgar  Jews  with  a  sort  of  personal  alarm. 
But  a  little  comparison  will  often  diminish  our 
surprise  and  disgust  at  the  aberrations  of  Jews 
and  other  dissidents  whose  lives  do  not  offer  a 
consistent  or  lovely  pattern  of  their  creed;  and 
this  evening  Deronda,  becoming  more  conscious 
that  he  was  falling  into  unfairness  and  ridicu- 
lous exaggeration,  began  to  use  that  corrective 
comparison:  he  paid  his  thaler  too  much,  with- 
out prejudice  to  his  interests  in  the  Hebrew 
destiny,  or  his  wish  to  find  the  Rabbinische 
Schule,  which  he  arrived  at  by  sunset,  and  en- 
tered with  a  good  congregation  of  men. 

He  happened  to  take  his  seat  in  a  line  with 
an  elderly  man  from  whom  he  was  distant 
enough  to  glance  at  him  more  than  once  as 
rather  a  noticeable  figure,  —  his  ample  w^hite 
beard  and  felt  hat  framing  a  profile  of  that 
fine  contour  which  may  as  easily  be  Italian  as 
Hebrew.  He  returned  Deronda's  notice  till  at 
last  their  eyes  met,  —  an  undesirable  chance 

VOL.  xm  —  9 


130  DANIEL  DERONDA 


with  unknown  persons,  and  a  reason  to  Deronda 
for  not  looking  again;  but  he  immediately  found 
an  open  prayer-book  pushed  towards  him  and 
had  to  bow  his  thanks.  However,  the  congre- 
gation had  mustered,  the  reader  had  mounted 
to  the  almemor,  or  platform,  and  the  service 
began.  Deronda,  having  looked  enough  at  the 
German  translation  of  the  Hebrew  in  the  book 
before  him  to  know  that  he  was  chiefly  hearing 
Psalms  and  Old  Testament  passages  or  phrases, 
gave  himself  up  to  that  strongest  effect  of 
chanted  liturgies  which  is  independent  of  de- 
tailed verbal  meaning,  —  like  the  effect  of  an 
Allegri's  Miserere  or  a  Palestrina's  Magnificat. 
The  most  powerful  movement  of  feeling  with 
a  liturgy  is  the  prayer  which  seeks  for  nothing 
special,  but  is  a  yearning  to  escape  from  the 
limitations  of  our  own  weakness  and  an  invoca- 
tion of  all  Good  to  enter  and  abide  with  us;  or 
else  a  self -oblivious  lifting  up  of  gladness,  a 
Gloria  in  eoccelsis  that  such  Good  exists;  both 
the  yearning  and  the  exultation  gathering  their 
utmost  force  from  the  sense  of  communion  in 
a  form  which  has  expressed  them  both,  for 
long  generations  of  struggling  fellow-men.  The 
Hebrew  liturgy,  like  others,  has  its  transitions 
of  litany,  lyric,  proclamation,  dry  statement  and 
blessing;  but  this  evening  all  were  one  for  De- 
ronda: the  chant  of  the  Chazan's  or  Reader's 
grand  wide-ranging  voice  with  its  passage  from 
monotony  to  sudden  cries,  the  outburst  of  sweet 
boys'  voices  from  the  little  choir,  the  devotional 
swaying  of  men's  bodies  backwards  and  for- 
wards, the  very  commonness  of  the  building  and 
shabbiness  of  the  scene  where  a  national  faith, 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE      131  ^ 


which  had  penetrated  the  thinking  of  half  the 
world,  and  moulded  the  splendid  forms  of  that 
world's  religion,  was  finding  a  remote,  obscure 
echo,  —  all  were  blent  for  him  as  one  expression 
of  a  binding  history,  tragic  and  yet  glorious. 
He  wondered  at  the  strength  of  his  own  feeling; 
it  seemed  beyond  the  occasion, — what  one  might 
imagine  to  be  a  divine  influx  in  the  darkness, 
before  there  was  any  vision  to  interpret.  The 
whole  scene  was  a  coherent  strain,  its  burthen 
a  passionate  regret,  which,  if  he  had  known  the 
liturgy  for  the  Day  of  Reconciliation,  he  might 
have  clad  in  its  antithetic  burthen:  "  Happy  the 
eye  which  saw  all  these  things;  but  verily  to 
hear  only  of  them  afflicts  our  soul.  Happy  the 
eye  that  saw  our  temple  and  the  joy  of  our 
congregation;  but  verily  to  hear  only  of  them 
afflicts  our  soul.  Happy  the  eye  that  saw  the 
fingers  when  tuning  every  kind  of  song;  but 
verily  to  hear  only  of  them  afflicts  our  soul." 

But  with  the  cessation  of  the  devotional  sounds 
and  the  movement  of  many  indifferent  faces  and 
vulgar  figures  before  him,  there  darted  into  his 
mind  the  frigid  idea  that  he  had  probably  been 
alone  in  his  feeling,  and  perhaps  the  only  per- 
son in  the  congregation  for  whom  the  service 
was  more  than  a  dull  routine.  There  was  just 
time  for  this  chilling  thought  before  he  had 
bowed  to  his  civil  neighbour  and  was  moving 
away  with  the  rest,  —  when  he  felt  a  hand  on 
his  arm,  and  turning  with  the  rather  unpleasant 
sensation  which  this  abrupt  sort  of  claim  is  apt 
to  bring,  he  saw  close  to  him  the  white-bearded 
face  of  that  neighbour,  who  said  to  him  in  Ger- 
man, "  Excuse  me,  young  gentleman  —  allow 


132  DANIEL  DERONDA 


me  —  what  is  your  parentage  —  your  mother's 
family  —  her  maiden  name?  " 

Deronda  had  a  strongly  resistant  feeling :  he 
was  inclined  to  shake  off  hastily  the  touch  on 
his  arm;  but  he  managed  to  slip  it  away  and 
said  coldly,  "  I  am  an  Englishman." 

The  questioner  looked  at  him  dubiously  still 
for  an  instant,  then  just  lifted  his  hat  and  turned 
away,  —  whether  under  a  sense  of  having  made  a 
mistake  or  of  having  been  repulsed,  Deronda  was 
uncertain.  In  his  walk  back  to  the  hotel  he  tried 
to  still  any  uneasiness  on  the  subject  by  re- 
flecting that  he  could  not  have  acted  differ- 
ently. How  could  he  say  that  he  did  not  know 
the  name  of  his  mother's  family  to  that  total 
stranger?  —  who  indeed  had  taken  an  unwar- 
rantable liberty  in  the  abruptness  of  his  ques- 
tion, dictated  probably  by  some  fancy  of  likeness 
such  as  often  occurs  without  real  significance. 
The  incident,  he  said  to  himself,  was  trivial; 
but  whatever  import  it  might  have,  his  inward 
shrinking  on  the  occasion  was  too  strong  for 
him  to  be  sorry  that  he  had  cut  it  short.  It  was 
a  reason,  however,  for  his  not  mentioning  the 
synagogue  to  the  Mallingers,  —  in  addition  to 
his  usual  inclination  to  reticence  on  anything 
that  the  baronet  would  have  been  likely  to  call 
Quixotic  enthusiasm.  Hardly  any  man  could 
be  more  good-natured  than  Sir  Hugo;  indeed 
in  his  kindliness,  especially  to  women,  he  did 
actions  which  others  would  have  called  roman- 
tic; but  he  never  took  a  romantic  view  of  them, 
and  in  general  smiled  at  the  introduction  of 
motives  on  a  grand  scale,  or  of  reasons  that 
lay  very  far  off.    This  was  the  point  of  strong- 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  133 


est  difference  between  him  and  Deronda,  who 
rarely  ate  his  breakfast  without  some  silent 
discursive  flight  after  grounds  for  filling  up 
his  day  according  to  the  practice  of  his 
contemporaries. 

This  halt  at  Frankfort  was  taken  on  their  way 
home,  and  its  impressions  were  kept  the  more 
actively  vibrating  in  him  by  the  duty  of  caring 
for  Mirah's  welfare.  That  question  about  his 
parentage,  which  if  he  had  not  both  inwardly 
and  outwardly  shaken  it  off  as  trivial,  w^ould 
have  seemed  a  threat  rather  than  a  promise  of 
revelation,  had  reinforced  his  anxiety  as  to  the 
effect  of  finding  Mirah's  relatives  and  his  resolve 
to  proceed  with  caution.  If  he  made  any  un- 
pleasant discovery,  was  he  bound  to  a  disclosure 
that  might  cast  a  new  net  of  trouble  around 
her? 

He  had  written  to  Mrs.  Meyrick  to  announce 
his  visit  at  four  o'clock,  and  he  found  Mirah 
seated  at  work  with  only  Mrs.  Me5rrick  and 
Mab,  the  open  piano,  and  all  the  glorious  com- 
pany of  engravings.  The  dainty  neatness  of 
her  hair  and  dress,  the  glow  of  tranquil  happi- 
ness in  a  face  where  a  painter  need  have  changed 
nothing  if  he  had  wanted  to  put  it  in  front  of 
the  host  singing  "  peace  on  earth  and  good- will 
to  men,"  made  a  contrast  to  his  first  vision  of  her 
that  was  delightful  to  Deronda's  eyes.  Mirah 
herself  was  thinking  of  it,  and  immediately  on 
their  greeting  said,  — 

"See  how  different  I  am  from  that  miserable 
creature  by  the  river!  —  all  because  you  found 
me  and  brought  me  to  the  very  best." 

"  It  was  my  good  chance  to  find  you,"  said 


134  DANIEL  DERONDA 


Deronda.    "  Any  other  man  would  have  been 
glad  to  do  what  I  did." 

"  That  is  not  the  right  way  of  thinking  about 
it,"  said  Mirah,  shaking  her  head  with  decisive 
gravity.  "  I  think  of  what  really  was.  It  was 
you,  and  not  another,  who  found  me,  and  were 
good  to  me." 

"  I  agree  with  Mirah,"  said  Mrs.  Meyrick.  ' 
"  Saint  Anybody  is  a  bad  saint  to  pray  to." 

"  Besides,  Anybody  could  not  have  brought 
me  to  you,"  said  Mirah,  smiling  at  Mrs.  Mey- 
rick. "  And  I  would  rather  be  with  you  than 
with  any  one  else  in  the  world  except  my 
mother.  I  wonder  if  ever  a  poor  little  bird, 
that  was  lost  and  could  not  fly,  was  taken  and 
put  into  a  warm  nest  where  there  was  a  mother 
and  sisters  who  took  to  it  so  that  everything 
came  naturally,  as  if  it  had  been  always  there. 
I  hardly  thought  before  that  the  world  could 
ever  be  as  happy  and  without  fear  as  it  is  to 
me  now."  She  looked  meditative  a  moment,  and 
then  said,  "  Sometimes  I  am  a  little  afraid." 

"  What  is  it  you  are  afraid  of  ?  "  said  De- 
ronda, with  anxiety. 

"  That  when  I  am  turning  at  the  corner  of 
a  street  I  may  meet  my  father.  It  seems 
dreadful  that  I  should  be  afraid  of  meeting 
him.  That  is  my  only  sorrow,"  said  Mirah, 
plaintively. 

"It  is  surely  not  very  probable,"  said  De- 
ronda, wishing  that  it  were  less  so;  then,  not 
to  let  the  opportunity  escape,  —  "  Would  it  be 
a  great  grief  to  you  now,  if  you  were  never  to 
meet  your  mother?  " 

She  did  not  answer  immediately,  but  medi- 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  135 


tated  again,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  opposite 
wall.  Then  she  turned  them  on  Deronda  and 
said  firmly,  as  if  she  had  arrived  at  the  exact 
truth,  "  I  want  her  to  know  that  I  have  always 
loved  her,  and  if  she  is  ahve  I  want  to  comfort 
her.  She  may  be  dead.  If  she  were,  I  should 
long  to  know  where  she  was  buried;  and  to 
know  whether  my  brother  lives,  so  that  we  can 
remember  her  together.  But  I  will  try  not  to 
grieve.  I  have  thought  much  for  so  many  years 
of  her  being  dead.  And  I  shall  have  her  with 
me  in  my  mind,  as  I  have  always  had.  We  can 
never  be  really  parted.  I  think  I  have  never 
sinned  against  her.  I  have  always  tried  not  to 
do  what  would  hurt  her.  Only  she  might  be 
sorry  that  I  was  not  a  good  Jewess." 

"  In  what  way  are  you  not  a  good  Jewess?  " 
said  Deronda. 

"  I  am  ignorant,  and  we  never  observed  the 
laws,  but  lived  among  Christians  just  as  they 
did.  But  I  have  heard  my  father  laugh  at  the 
strictness  of  the  Jews  about  their  food  and  all 
customs,  and  their  not  liking  Christians.  I  think 
my  mother  was  strict ;  but  she  could  never  want 
me  not  to  like  those  who  are  better  to  me 
than  any  of  my  own  people  I  have  ever  known. 
I  think  I  could  obey  in  other  things  that  she 
wished,  but  not  in  that.  It  is  so  much  easier  to 
me  to  share  in  love  than  in  hatred.  I  remem- 
ber a  play  I  read  in  German  —  since  I  have 
been  here,  it  has  come  into  my  mind,  —  where 
the  heroine  says  something  like  that." 

"  Antigone,"  said  Deronda. 
Ah,  you  know  it.   But  I  do  not  believe  that 
my  mother  would  wish  me  not  to  love  my  best 


136  DANIEL  DERONDA 


friends.  She  would  be  grateful  to  them."  Here 
Mirah  had  turned  to  Mrs.  Meyrick,  and  with  a 
sudden  lighting  up  of  her  whole  countenance 
she  said,  "  Oh,  if  we  ever  do  meet  and  know  each 
other  as  we  are  now,  so  that  I  could  tell  what 
would  comfort  her,  —  I  should  be  so  full  of 
blessedness,  my  soul  would  know  no  want  but 
to  love  her!  " 

"  God  bless  you,  child!  "  said  Mrs.  Meyrick, 
the  words  escaping  involuntarily  from  her 
motherly  heart.  But  to  relieve  the  strain  of  feel- 
ing she  looked  at  Deronda  and  said,  "  It  is  curi- 
ous that  Mirah,  who  remembers  her  mother  so 
well  it  is  as  if  she  saw  her,  cannot  recall  her 
brother  the  least  bit,  —  except  the  feeling  of 
having  been  carried  by  him  when  she  was  tired, 
and  of  his  being  near  her  when  she  was  in  her 
mother's  lap.  It  must  be  that  he  was  rarely  at 
home.  He  was  already  grown  up.  It  is  a  pity 
her  brother  should  be  quite  a  stranger  to  her." 

"  He  is  good;  I  feel  sure  Ezra  is  good,"  said 
Mirah,  eagerly.  "  He  loved  my  mother,  —  he 
would  take  care  of  her.  I  remember  more  of 
him  than  that.  I  remember  my  mother's  voice 
once  calling,  '  Ezra! '  and  then  his  answering 
from  the  distance,  'Mother!'"  —  Mirah  had 
changed  her  voice  a  little  in  each  of  these  words, 
and  had  given  them  a  loving  intonation,  —  and 
then  he  came  close  to  us.  I  feel  sure  he  is  good. 
I  have  always  taken  comfort  from  that." 

It  was  impossible  to  answer  this  either  with 
agreement  or  doubt.  Mrs.  Meyrick  and  De- 
ronda exchanged  a  quick  glance:  about  this 
brother  she  felt  as  painfully  dubious  as  he  did. 
But  Mirah  went  on,  absorbed  in  her  memories,  — 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  137 


"Is  it  not  wonderful  how  I  remember  the 
voices  better  than  anything  else?  I  think  they 
must  go  deeper  into  us  than  other  things.  I  have 
often  fancied  heaven  might  be  made  of  voices." 

"  Like  your  singing  —  yes,"  said  Mab,  who 
had  hitherto  kept  a  modest  silence,  and  now 
spoke  bashfully,  as  was  her  wont  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Prince  Camaralzaman,  —  "  Ma,  do  ask 
Mirah  to  sing.  Mr.  Deronda  has  not  heard 
her." 

"  Would  it  be  disagreeable  to  you  to  sing 
now?  "  said  Deronda,  with  a  more  deferential 
gentleness  than  he  had  ever  been  conscious  of 
before. 

"  Oh,  I  shall  like  it,"  said  Mirah.  "  My  voice 
has  come  back  a  little  with  rest." 

Perhaps  her  ease  of  manner  was  due  to  some- 
thing more  than  the  simplicity  of  her  nature. 
The  circumstances  of  her  life  had  made  her  think 
of  everything  she  did  as  work  demanded  from 
her,  in  which  affectation  had  nothing  to  do ;  and 
she  had  begun  her  work  before  self -conscious- 
ness was  born. 

She  immediately  rose  and  went  to  the  piano, 
—  a  somewhat  worn  instrument  that  seemed  to 
get  the  better  of  its  infirmities  under  the  firm 
touch  of  her  small  fingers  as  she  preluded. 
Deronda  placed  himself  where  he  could  see  her 
while  she  sang;  and  she  took  everything  as 
quietly  as  if  she  had  been  a  child  going  to 
breakfast. 

Imagine  her  —  it  is  always  good  to  imagine 
a  human  creature  in  whom  bodily  loveliness 
seems  as  properly  one  with  the  entire  being  as 
the  bodily  loveliness  of  those  wondrous  trans- 


138  DANIEL  DERONDA 


parent  orbs  of  life  that  we  find  in  the  sea  —  im- 
agine her  with  her  dark  hair  brushed  from  her 
temples,  but  yet  showing  certain  tiny  rings  there 
which  had  cunningly  found  their  own  way  back, 
the  mass  of  it  hanging  behind  just  to  the  nape 
of  the  little  neck  in  curly  fibres,  such  as  renew 
themselves  at  their  own  will  after  being  bathed 
into  straightness  like  that  of  water-grasses. 
Then  see  the  perfect  cameo  her  profile  makes, 
cut  in  a  duskish  shell  where  by  some  happy  for- 
tune there  pierced  a  gem-like  darkness  for  the 
eye  and  eyebrow;  the  delicate  nostrils  defined 
enough  to  be  ready  for  sensitive  movements,  the 
finished  ear,  the  firm  curves  of  the  chin  and  neck 
entering  into  the  expression  of  a  refinement 
which  was  not  feebleness. 

She  sang  Beethoven's  "  Per  pieta  non  dirmi 
addio,"  with  a  subdued  but  searching  pathos 
which  had  that  essential  of  perfect  singing,  the 
making  one  oblivious  of  art  or  manner,  and  only 
possessing  one  with  the  song.  It  was  the  sort 
of  voice  that  gives  the  impression  of  being  meant 
like  a  bird's  wooing  for  an  audience  near  and 
beloved.  Deronda  began  by  looking  at  her,  but 
felt  himself  presently  covering  his  eyes  with  his 
hand,  wanting  to  seclude  the  melody  in  dark- 
ness; then  he  refrained  from  what  might  seem 
oddity,  and  was  ready  to  meet  the  look  of  mute 
appeal  which  she  turned  towards  him  at  the 
end. 

"  I  think  I  never  enjoyed  a  song  more  than 
that,"  he  said  gratefully. 

"  You  like  my  singing?  I  am  so  glad,"  she 
said,  with  a  smile  of  delight.  "  It  has  been  a 
great  pain  to  me,  because  it  failed  in  what  it  was 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  139 


wanted  for.  But  now  we  think  I  can  use  it  to 
get  my  bread.  I  have  really  been  taught  well. 
And  now  I  have  two  pupils,  that  Miss  Meyriek 
found  for  me.  They  pay  me  nearly  twO  crowns 
for  their  two  lessons." 

"  I  think  I  know  some  ladies  who  would  find 
you  many  pupils  after  Christmas,"  said  De- 
ronda.  "  You  would  not  mind  singing  before 
any  one  who  wished  to  hear  you?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  I  want  to  do  something  to  get  money. 
I  could  teach  reading  and  speaking,  Mrs.  Mey- 
riek thinks.  But  if  no  one  would  learn  of  me, 
that  is  difficult."  Mir  ah  smiled  with  a  touch  of 
merriment  he  had  not  seen  in  her  before.  "  I 
dare  say  I  should  find  her  poor,  —  I  mean  my 
mother.  I  should  want  to  get  money  for  her. 
And  I  cannot  always  live  on  charity;  though  " 
—  here  she  turned  so  as  to  take  all  three  of  her 
companions  in  one  glance  —  ''it  is  the  sweetest 
charity  in  all  the  world." 

"  I  should  think  you  can  get  rich,"  said  De- 
ronda,  smiling.  "  Great  ladies  will  perhaps  like 
you  to  teach  their  daughters.  We  shall  see. 
But  now  do  sing  again  to  us." 

She  went  on  willingly,  singing  with  ready 
memory  various  things  by  Gordigiani  and  Schu- 
bert; then,  when  she  had  left  the  piano,  Mab 
said  entreatingly,  "  Oh,  Mirah,  if  you  would 
not  mind  singing  the  little  hymn." 

"  It  is  too  childish,"  said  Mirah.  "  It  is  like 
lisping." 

"  What  is  the  hymn?  "  said  Deronda. 

"It  is  the  Hebrew  hymn  she  remembers  her 
mother  singing  over  her  when  she  lay  in  her  cot," 
^aid  Mrs.  Meyriek. 


140  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  I  should  like  very  much  to  hear  it,"  said  De- 
ronda,  "  if  you  think  I  am  worthy  to  hear  what 
is  so  sacred." 

"  I  will  sing  it  if  you  like,"  said  jNIirah,  "  but 
I  don't  sing  real  words  —  only  here  and  there 
a  syllable  like  hers  —  the  rest  is  lisping.  Do  you 
know  Hebrew?  because  if  you  do,  my  singing 
will  seem  childish  nonsense." 

Deronda  shook  his  head.  "  It  will  be  quite 
good  Hebrew  to  me." 

Mirah  crossed  her  little  feet  and  hands  in  her 
easiest  attitude,  and  then  lifted  up  her  head  at 
an  angle  which  seemed  to  be  directed  to  some 
invisible  face  bent  over  her,  while  she  sang  a 
little  hymn  of  quaint  melancholy  intervals,  with 
syllables  that  really  seemed  childish  lisping  to 
her  audience;  but  the  voice  in  which  she  gave 
it  forth  had  gathered  even  a  sweeter,  more 
cooing  tenderness  than  was  heard  in  her  other 
songs. 

"  If  I  were  ever  to  know  the  real  words,  I 
should  still  go  on  in  my  old  way  with  them," 
said  Mirah,  when  she  had  repeated  the  hymn 
several  times. 

"Why  not?"  said  Deronda.  "The  lisped 
syllables  are  very  full  of  meaning." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Meyrick.  "  A 
mother  hears  something  like  a  lisp  in  her  chil- 
dren's talk  to  the  very  last.  Their  words  are 
not  just  what  everybody  else  says,  though  they 
may  be  spelt  the  same.  If  I  were  to  live  till  my 
Hans  got  old,  I  should  still  see  the  boy  in  him. 
A  mother's  love,  I  often  say,  is  like  a  tree  that 
has  got  aU  the  wood  in  it,  from  the  very  first  it 
made." 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  141 


"  Is  not  that  the  way  with  friendship  too?  " 
said  Deronda,  smiMng.  "We  must  not  let 
mothers  be  too  arrogant." 

The  bright  Httle  woman  shook  her  head  over 
her  darning. 

"  It  is  easier  to  find  an  old  mother  than  an  old 
friend.  Friendships  begin  with  liking  or  grati- 
tude,—  roots  that  can  be  pulled  up.  Mother's 
love  begins  deeper  down." 

"  Like  what  you  were  saying  about,  the  influ- 
ence of  voices,"  said  Deronda,  looking  at  Mirah. 
"  I  don't  think  your  hymn  would  have  had  more 
expression  for  me  if  I  had  known  the  words. 
I  went  to  the  synagogue  at  Frankfort  before 
I  came  home,  and  the  service  impressed  me  just 
as  much  as  if  I  had  followed  the  words,  —  per- 
haps more." 

"  Oh,  was  it  great  to  you?  Did  it  go  to  your 
heart?  "  said  Mirah,  eagerly.  "  I  thought  none 
but  our  people  would  feel  that.  I  thought  it 
was  all  shut  away  like  a  river  in  a  deep  valley, 
where  only  heaven  saw  —  I  mean  —  "  she  hesi- 
tated, feeling  that  she  could  not  disentangle  her 
thought  from  its  imagery. 

"  I  understand,"  said  Deronda.  "  But  there 
is  not  really  such  a  separation,  —  deeper  down, 
as  Mrs.  Meyrick  says.  Our  religion  is  chiefly  a 
Hebrew  religion ;  and  since  Jews  are  men,  their 
religious  feelings  must  have  much  in  common 
with  those  of  other  men,  —  just  as  their  poetry, 
though  in  one  sense  peculiar,  has  a  great  deal 
in  common  with  the  poetry  of  other  nations. 
Still  it  is  to  be  expected  that  a  Jew  would  feel 
the  forms  of  his  people's  religion  more  than  one 
of  another  race,  —  and  yet  "  —  here  Deronda 


142  DANIEL  DERONDA 


hesitated  in  his  turn  — "  that  is  perhaps  not 
always  so." 

"  Ah,  no,"  said  Mirah,  sadly.  "  I  have  seen 
that.  I  have  seen  them  mock.  Is  it  not  like 
mocking  your  parents?  —  like  rejoicing  in  your 
parents'  shame?  " 

Some  minds  naturally  rebel  against  what- 
ever they  were  brought  up  in,  and  like  the  oppo- 
site; they  see  the  faults  in  what  is  nearest  to 
them,"  said  Deronda,  apologetically. 

"  But  you  are  not  like  that,"  said  Mirah,  look- 
ing at  him  with  unconscious  fixedness. 

"  No,  I  think  not,"  said  Deronda;  "  but  you 
know  I  was  not  brought  up  as  a  Jew." 

"  Ah,  I  am  always  forgetting,"  said  Mirah, 
with  a  look  of  disappointed  recollection,  and 
slightly  blushing. 

Deronda  also  felt  rather  embarrassed,  and 
there  was  an  awkward  pause,  which  he  put  an 
end  to  by  saying  playfully,  — 

Whichever  way  we  take  it,  we  have  to  toler- 
ate each  other;  for  if  we  all  went  in  opposition 
to  our  teaching,  we  must  end  in  difference,  just 
the  same." 

"  To  be  sure.  We  should  go  on  forever  in 
zigzags,"  said  Mrs.  Meyrick.  "  I  think  it  is 
very  weak-minded  to  make  your  creed  up  by  the 
rule  of  contrar5^  Still  one  may  honour  one's 
parents  without  following  their  notions  exactly, 
any  more  than  the  exact  cut  of  their  clothing. 
My  father  was  a  Scotch  Calvinist  and  my  mother 
was  a  French  Calvinist;  I  am  neither  quite 
Scotch,  nor  quite  French,  nor  two  Calvinists 
rolled  into  one,  yet  I  honour  my  parents' 
memory." 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  143 


"  But  I  could  not  make  myself  not  a  Jewess," 
said  Mirah,  insistently,  "  even  if  I  changed  my 
belief." 

"  No,  my  dear.  But  if  Jews  and  Jewesses 
went  on  changing  their  religion,  and  making  no 
difference  between  themselves  and  Christians, 
there  would  come  a  time  when  there  would  be 
no  Jews  to  be  seen,"  said  Mrs.  JSIeyrick,  taking 
that  consummation  very  cheerfully. 

"  Oh,  please  not  to  say  that,"  said  Mirah,  the 
tears  gathering.  "It  is  the  first  unkind  thing 
you  ever  said.  I  will  not  begin  that.  I  will 
never  separate  myself  from  my  mother's  people. 
I  was  forced  to  fly  from  my  father;  but  if  he 
came  back  in  age  and  weakness  and  want,  and 
needed  me,  should  I  say,  '  This  is  not  my 
father  '?  If  he  had  shame,  I  must  share  it.  It 
was  he  who  was  given  to  me  for  my  father,  and 
not  another.  And  so  it  is  with  my  people.  I 
will  always  be  a  Jewess.  I  will  love  Christians 
when  they  are  good,  like  you.  But  I  will  always 
cling  to  my  people.  I  will  always  worship  with 
them." 

As  Mirah  had  gona  on  speaking,  she  had  be- 
come possessed  with  a  sorrowful  passion,  — 
fervent,  not  violent.  Holding  her  little  hands 
tightly  clasped  and  looking  at  Mrs.  Meyrick 
with  beseeching,  she  seemed  to  Deronda  a  per- 
sonification of  that  spirit  which  impelled  men 
after  a  long  inheritance  of  professed  Catholi- 
cism to  leave  wealth  and  high  place,  and  risk  their 
lives  in  flight,  that  they  might  join  their  own 
people  and  say,  "  I  am  a  Jew." 

"  Mirah,  Mirah,  my  dear  child,  you  mistake 
me!  "  said  Mrs.  Meyrick,  alarmed.    "  God  for- 


IM         DANIEL  DERONDA 


bid  I  should  want  you  to  do  anything  against 
your  conscience.  I  was  only  saying  what  might 
be  if  the  world  went  on.  But  I  had  better  have 
left  the  world  alone,  and  not  wanted  to  be  over- 
wise.  Eorgive  me,  come!  we  will  not  try  to 
take  you  from  anybody  you  feel  has  more  right 
to  you." 

"  I  would  do  anything  else  for  you.  I  owe 
you  my  life,"  said  Mirah,  not  yet  quite  calm. 

"  Hush,  hush,  now!  "  said  Mrs.  Meyrick.  "  I 
have  been  punished  enough  for  wagging  my 
tongue  foolishly,  —  making  an  almanac  for  the 
Millennium,  as  my  husband  used  to  say." 

"  But  everything  in  the  world  must  come  to 
an  end  sometime.  We  must  bear  to  think  of 
that,"  said  Mab,  unable  to  hold  her  peace  on  this 
point.  She  had  already  suffered  from  a  bond- 
age of  tongue  which  threatened  to  become  severe 
if  Mirah  were  to  be  too  much  indulged  in  this 
inconvenient  susceptibility  to  innocent  remarks. 

Deronda  smiled  at  the  irregular,  blond  face, 
brought  into  strange  contrast  by  the  side  of 
Mirah's,  —  smiled,  Mab  thought,  rather  sarcas- 
tically as  he  said,  "  That  prospect  of  everything 
coming  to  an  end  will  not  guide  us  far  in  prac- 
tice. Mirah's  feelings,  she  tells  us,  are  concerned 
with  what  is." 

Mab  was  confused  and  wished  she  had  not 
spoken,  since  Mr.  Deronda  seemed  to  think  that 
she  had  found  fault  with  Mirah;  but  to  have 
spoken  once  is  a  tyrannous  reason  for  speaking 
again,  and  she  said,  — 

"  I  only  meant  that  we  must  have  courage  to 
hear  things,  else  there  is  hardly  anything  we  can 
talk  about."  Mab  felt  herself  unanswerable  here, 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE 


145 


inclining  to  the  opinion  of  Socrates:  "  What 
motive  has  a  man  to  Hve,  if  not  for  the  pleasures 
of  discourse?  " 

Deronda  took  his  leave  soon  after;  and  when 
Mrs.  Meyrick  went  outside  with  him  to  exchange 
a  few  words  about  Mirah,  he  said,  "  Plans  is  to 
share  my  chambers  when  he  comes  at  Christmas." 

You  have  written  to  Rome  about  that?  "  said 
Mrs.  Meyrick,  her  face  lighting  up.  "  How  very 
good  and  thoughtful  of  you!  You  mentioned 
Mirah,  then?" 

"  Yes,  I  referred  to  her.  I  concluded  he  knew 
everything  from  you." 

"  I  must  confess  my  folly.  I  have  not  yet 
written  a  word  about  her.  I  have  always  been 
meaning  to  do  it,  and  yet  have  ended  my  letter 
without  saying  a  word.  And  I  told  the  girls 
to  leave  it  to  me.  However !  —  Thank  you  a 
thousand  times." 

Deronda  divined  something  of  what  was  in 
the  mother's  mind,  and  his  divination  reinforced 
a  certain  anxiety  already  present  in  him.  His 
inward  colloquy  was  not  soothing.  He  said  to 
himself  that  no  man  could  see  this  exquisite 
creature  without  feeling  it  possible  to  fall  in  love 
with  her;  but  all  the  fervour  of  his  nature  was 
engaged  on  the  side  of  precaution.  There  are 
personages  who  feel  themselves  tragic  because 
they  march  into  a  palpable  morass,  dragging 
another  with  them,  and  then  cry  out  against 
all  the  gods.  Deronda's  mind  was  strongly  set 
against  imitating  them. 

"  I  have  my  hands  on  the  reins  now,"  he 
thought,  "  and  I  will  not  drop  them.  I  shall  go 
there  as  little  as  possible." 

VOL.  XIII  — 10 


146  DANIEL  DERONDA 


He  saw  the  reasons  acting  themselves  out 
before  him.  How  could  he  be  Mirah's  guardian 
and  claim  to  unite  with  Mrs.  Meyrick,  to  whose 
charge  he  had  committed  her,  if  he  showed  him- 
self as  a  lover,  - —  whom  she  did  not  love,  — 
whom  she  would  not  marry?  And  if  he  encour- 
aged any  germ  of  lover's  feeling  in  himself,  it 
would  lead  up  to  that  issue.  Mirah's  was  not  a 
nature  that  would  bear  dividing  against  itself; 
and  even  if  love  won  her  consent  to  marry  a  man 
who  was  not  of  her  race  and  religion,  she  would - 
never  be  happy  in  acting  against  that  strong 
native  bias  which  would  still  reign  in  her  con- 
science as  remorse. 

Deronda  saw  these  consequences  as  we  see 
any  danger  of  marring  our  own  work  well 
begun.  It  was  a  delight  to  have  rescued  this 
child  acquainted  with  sorrow,  and  to  think  of 
having  placed  her  little  feet  in  protected  paths. 
The  creature  we  help  to  save,  though  only  a  half- 
reared  linnet,  bruised  and  lost  by  the  wayside, 
—  how  we  watch  and  fence  it,  and  dote  on  its 
signs  of  recovery!  Our  pride  becomes  loving, 
our  self  is  a  not-self  for  whose  sake  we  become 
virtuous,  when  we  set  to  some  hidden  work  of 
reclaiming  a  life  from  misery  and  look  for  our 
triumph  in  the  secret  joy,  —  "  This  one  is  the 
better  for  me." 

"  I  would  as  soon  hold  out  my  finger  to  be 
bitten  off  as  set  about  spoiling  her  peace,"  said 
Deronda.  "  It  was  one  of  the  rarest  bits  of  for- 
tune that  I  should  have  had  friends  like  the 
Meyricks  to  place  her  with,  —  generous,  delicate 
friends  without  any  loftiness  in  their  ways,  so 
that  her  dependence  on  them  is  not  only  safety 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  147 


but  happiness.  There  could  be  no  refuge  to  re- 
place that,  if  it  were  broken  up.  But  what  is  the 
use  of  my  taking  the  vows  and  settling  every- 
thing as  it  should  be,  if  that  marplot  Hans  comes 
and  upsets  it  all?  " 

Few  things  were  more  likely.  Hans  was  made 
for  mishaps:  his  very  limbs  seemed  more  break- 
able than  other  people's,  —  his  eyes  more  of  a 
resort  for  uninvited  flies  and  other  irritating 
guests.  But  it  was  impossible  to  forbid  Hans's 
coming  to  London.  He  was  intending  to  get 
a  studio  there  and  make  it  his  chief  home ;  and  to 
propose  that  he  should  defer  coming  on  some 
ostensible  ground,  concealing  the  real  motive  of 
winning  time  for  Mirah's  position  to  become 
more  confirmed  and  independent,  was  imprac- 
ticable. Having  no  other  resource,  Deronda 
tried  to  believe  that  both  he  and  Mrs.  Meyrick 
were  foolishly  troubling  themselves  about  one 
of  those  endless  things  called  probabilities,  which 
never  occur;  but  he  did  not  quite  succeed  in  his 
trying:  on  the  contrary,  he  found  himself  going 
inwardly  through  a  scene  where,  on  the  first  dis- 
covery of  Hans's  inclination,  he  gave  him  a  very 
energetic  warning,  —  suddenly  checked,  how- 
ever, by  the  suspicion  of  personal  feeling  that 
his  warmth  might  be  creating  in  Hans.  He 
could  come  to  no  result,  but  that  the  position  was 
peculiar,  and  that  he  could  make  no  further  pro- 
vision against  dangers  until  they  came  nearer. 
To  save  an  unhappy  Jewess  from  drowning  her- 
self, would  not  have  seemed  a  startling  variation 
among  police  reports;  but  to  discover  in  her  so 
rare  a  creature  as  Mirah,  was  an  exceptional 
event  which  might  well  bring  exceptional  conse- 


148  DANIEL  DERONDA 


quences.  Deronda  would  not  let  himself  for  a 
moment  dwell  on  any  supposition  that  the  conse- 
quences might  enter  deeply  into  his  own  life. 
The  image  of  Mirah  had  never  yet  had  that  pene- 
trating radiation  which  would  have  been  given 
to  it  by  the  idea  of  her  loving  him.  When 
this  sort  of  effluence  is  absent  from  the  fancy 
(whether  from  the  fact  or  not),  a  man  may  go 
far  in  devotedness  without  perturbation. 

As  to  the  search  for  Mirah 's  mother  and 
brother,  Deronda  took  what  she  had  said  to-day 
as  a  warrant  for  deferring  any  immediate  meas- 
ures. His  conscience  was  not  quite  easy  in  this 
desire  for  delay,  any  more  than  it  was  quite  easy 
in  his  not  attempting  to  learn  the  truth  about 
his  own  mother:  in  both  cases  he  felt  that  there 
might  be  an  unfulfilled  duty  to  a  parent,  but  in 
both  cases  there  was  an  overpowering  repug- 
nance to  the  possible  truth,  which  threw  a  turn- 
ing weight  into  the  scale  of  argument. 

"  At  least,  I  will  look  about,"  was  his  final 
determination.  "  I  may  find  some  special  Jewish 
machinery.   I  will  wait  till  after  Christmas." 

What  should  we  all  do  without  the  calendar, 
when  we  want  to  put  off  a  disagreeable  duty? 
The  admirable  arrangements  of  the  solar  system, 
by  which  our  time  is  measured,  always  supply 
us  with  a  term  before  which  it  is  hardly  worth 
while  to  set  about  anything  we  are  disinclined  to. 


CHAPTER  VI 


"'No  man,'  says  a  Rabbi,  by  way  of  indisputable  instance,  ' may  turn  ; 
the  bones  of  his  father  and  mother  into  spoons,'  —  sure  that  his  hearers  i 
felt  the  checks  against  that  form  of  economy.  The  market  for  spoons  ; 
has  never  expanded  enough  for  any  one  to  say,  '  Why  not  ? '  and  to  argue  j 
that  human  progress  lies  in  such  an  application  of  material.  The  only  j 
check  to  be  alleged  is  a  sentiment,  which  will  coerce  none  who  do  not  \ 
hold  that  sentiments  are  the  better  part  of  the  world's  wealth." 

DEROND A  meanwhile  took  to  a  less  fash- 
ionable form  of  exercise  than  riding  in  ■ 
Rotten  Row.    He  went  often  rambling 
in  those  parts  of  London  which  are  most  inhab-  \ 
ited  by  common  Jews:  he  walked  to  the  syna-  j 
gogues  at  times  of  service,  he  looked  into  shops,  i 
he  observed  faces,  —  a  process  not  very  prom-  ; 
ising  of  particular  discovery.    Why  did  he  not  . 
address  himself  to  an  influential  Rabbi  or  other  ' 
member  of  a  Jewish  community,  to  consult  on 
the  chances  of  finding  a  mother  named  Cohen, 
with  a  son  named  Ezra,  and  a  lost  daughter 
named  Mirah  ?   He  thought  of  doing  so  —  after 
Christmas.    The  fact  was,  notwithstanding  all  \ 
his  sense  of  poetry  in  common  things,  Deronda, 
where  a  keen  personal  interest  was  aroused,  could 
not,  more  than  the  rest  of  us,  continuously  escape 
suffering  from  the  pressure  of  that  hard  unac-  i 
commodating  Actual,  which  has  never  consulted  \ 
our  taste  and  is  entirely  unselect.    Enthusiasm,  | 
we  know,  dwells  at  ease  among  ideas,  tolerates  1 
garlic  breathed  in  the  middle  ages,  and  sees  no  i 
shabbiness  in  the  official  trappings  of  classic  pro-  j 
cessions:  it  gets  squeamish  when  ideals  press  '\ 


150  DANIEL  DERONDA 


upon  it  as  something  warmly  incarnate,  and  can 
hardly  face  them  without  fainting.  Ikying 
dreamily  in  a  boat,  imagining  one's  self  in  quest 
of  a  beautiful  maiden's  relatives  in  Cordova 
elbowed  by  Jews  in  the  time  of  Ibn-Gebirol,  all 
the  physical  incidents  can  be  borne  without  shock. 
Or  if  the  scenery  of  St.  Mary  Axe  and  White- 
chapel  were  imaginatively  transported  to  the 
borders  of  the  Rhine  at  the  end  of  the  eleventh 
century,  when  in  the  ears  listening  for  the  sig- 
nals of  the  Messiah,  the  Hep !  Hep !  Hep !  of  the 
Crusaders  came  like  the  bay  of  blood-hounds; 
and  in  the  presence  of  those  devilish  missionaries 
with  sword  and  firebrand,  the  crouching  figure 
of  the  reviled  Jew  turned  round  erect,  heroic, 
flashing  with  sublime  constancy  in  the  face  of 
torture  and  death,  —  what  would  the  dingy 
shops  and  unbeautiful  faces  signify  to  the  thrill 
of  contemplative  emotion?  But  the  fervour  of 
sympathy  with  which  we  contemplate  a  gran- 
diose martyrdom  is  feeble  compared  with  the 
enthusiasm  that  keeps  unslacked  where  there  is 
no  danger,  no  challenge,  —  nothing  but  impar- 
tial mid-day  falling  on  commonplace,  perhaps 
half -repulsive  objects  which  are  really  the  be- 
loved ideas  made  flesh.  Here  undoubtedly  lies 
the  chief  poetic  energy,  —  in  the  force  of  imagi- 
nation that  pierces  or  exalts  the  solid  fact,  in- 
stead of  floating  among  cloud  pictures.  To 
glory  in  a  prophetic  vision  of  knowledge  cover- 
ing the  earth  is  an  easier  exercise  of  believing 
imagination  than  to  see  its  beginning  in  news- 
paper placards,  staring  at  you  from  a  bridge 
beyond  the  cornfields ;  and  it  might  well  happen 
to  most  of  us  dainty  people  that  we  were  in  the 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  151 


thick  of  the  battle  of  Armageddon  without  being 
aware  of  anything  more  than  the  annoyance  of 
a  httle  explosive  smoke  and  struggling  on  the 
ground  immediately  about  us. 

It  lay  in  Deronda's  nature  usually  to  contemn 
the  feeble,  fastidious  sympathy  which  shrinks 
from  the  broad  life  of  mankind;  but  now,  with 
Mirah  before  him  as  a  living  reality  whose  ex- 
perience he  had  to  care  for,  he  saw  every  common 
Jew  and  Jewess  in  the  light  of  comparison  with 
her,  and  had  a  presentiment  of  the  collision  be- 
tween her  idea  of  the  unknown  mother  and 
brother  and  the  discovered  fact,  —  a  presenti- 
ment all  the  keener  in  him  because  of  a  sup- 
pressed consciousness  that  a  not  unlike  possibil- 
ity of  collision  might  lie  hidden  in  his  own  lot. 
Not  that  he  would  have  looked  with  more  com- 
placency of  expectation  at  wealthy  Jews,  out- 
doing the  lords  of  the  Philistines  in  their  sports ; 
but  since  there  was  no  likelihood  of  Mirah's 
friends  being  found  among  that  class,  their 
habits  did  not  immediately  affect  him.  In  this 
mood  he  rambled,  without  expectation  of  a  more 
pregnant  result  than  a  little  preparation  of  his 
own  mind,  perhaps  for  future  theorizing  as  well 
as  practice,  —  very  much  as  if,  Mirah  being 
related  to  Welsh  miners,  he  had  gone  to  look 
more  closely  at  the  ways  of  those  people,  not 
without  wishing  at  the  same  time  to  get  a  little 
light  of  detail  on  the  history  of  Strikes. 

He  really  did  not  long  to  find  anybody  in  par- 
ticular ;  and  when,  as  his  habit  was,  he  looked  at 
the  name  over  a  shop-door,  he  was  well  content 
that  it  was  not  Ezra  Cohen.  I  confess,  he  par- 
ticularly desired  that  Ezra  Cohen  should  not 


152  DANIEL  DERONDA 


keep  a  shop.  Wishes  are  held  to  be  ominous; 
according  to  which  beUef  the  order  of  the  world 
is  so  arranged  that  if  you  have  an  impious  objec- 
tion to  a  squint,  your  offspring  is  the  more  likely 
to  be  born  with  one ;  also,  that  if  you  happened 
to  desire  a  squint,  you  would  not  get  it.  This 
desponding  view  of  probability  the  hopeful  en- 
tirely reject,  taking  their  wishes  as  good  and 
sufficient  security  for  all  kindjs  of  fulfilment. 
Who  is  absolutely  neutral?  Deronda,  happen- 
ing one  morning  to  turn  into  a  little  side  street 
out  of  the  noise  and  obstructions  of  Holborn, 
felt  the  scale  dip  on  the  desponding  side. 

He  was  rather  tired  of  the  streets  and  had 
paused  to  hail  a  hansom  cab  which  he  saw  com- 
ing, when  his  attention  was  caught  by  some  fine 
old  clasps  in  chased  silver  displayed  in  the  win- 
dow at  his  right  hand.  His  first  thought  was 
that  Lady  Mallinger,  who  had  a  strictly  Prot- 
estant taste  for  such  Catholic  spoils,  might  like 
to  have  these  missal-clasps  turned  into  a  brace- 
let; then  his  eyes  travelled  over  the  other  con- 
tents of  the  window,  and  he  saw  that  the  shop 
was  that  kind  of  pawnbroker's  where  the  lead 
is  given  to  jewellery,  lace,  and  all  equivocal 
objects  introduced  as  bric-a-brac.  A  placard 
in  one  corner  announced.  Watches  and  Jewel- 
lery eocchanged  and  repaired.  But  this  survey 
had  been  noticed  from  within;  and  a  figure 
appeared  at  the  door,  looking  round  at  him, 
and  saying  in  a  tone  of  cordial  encouragement, 
"  Good  day,  sir."  The  instant  was  enough  for 
Deronda  to  see  that  the  face,  unmistakably 
Jewish,  belonged  to  a  young  man  about  thirty; 
and  wincing  from  the  shopkeeper's  persuasive- 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  153 


ness  that  would  probably  follow,  he  had  no 
sooner  returned  the  "  good  day,"  than  he  passed 
to  the  other  side  of  the  street,  and  beckoned 
to  the  cabman  to  draw  up  there.  From  that 
station  he  saw  the  name  over  the  shop -window, 
—  Ezra  Cohen. 

There  might  be  a  hundred  Ezra  Cohens  let- 
tered above  shop-windows,  but  Deronda  had  not 
seen  them.  Probably  the  young  man  interested 
in  a  possible  customer  was  Ezra  himself;  and 
he  was  about  the  age  to  be  expected  in  Mirah's 
brother,  who  was  grown  up  while  she  was  still 
a  little  child.  But  Deronda's  first  endeavour 
as  he  drove  homewards  was  to  convince  himself 
that  there  was  not  the  slightest  warrantable  pre- 
sumption of  this  Ezra  being  Mirah's  brother; 
and  next,  that  even  if,  in  spite  of  good  reason- 
ing, he  turned  out  to  be  that  brother,  while  on 
inquiry  the  mother  was  found  to  be  dead,  it 
was  not  his  —  Deronda's  —  duty  to  make  known 
the  discovery  to  Mirah.  In  inconvenient  dis- 
turbance of  this  conclusion  there  came  his  lately 
acquired  knowledge  that  Mirah  would  have  a 
religious  desire  to  know  of  her  mother's  death, 
and  also  to  learn  whether  her  brother  were  liv- 
ing. How  far  was  he  justified  in  determining 
another  life  by  his  own  notions?  Was  it  not 
his  secret  complaint  against  the  way  in  which 
others  had  ordered  his  own  life,  that  he  had 
not  open  daylight  on  all  its  relations,  so  that 
he  had  not,  like  other  men,  the  full  guidance 
of  primary  duties? 

The  immediate  relief  from  this  inward  debate 
was  the  reflection  that  he  had  not  yet  made  any 
real  discovery,  and  that  by  looking  into  the  facts 


154  DANIEL  DERONDA 


more  closely  he  should  be  certified  that  there 
was  no  demand  on  him  for  any  decision  what- 
ever. He  intended  to  retm^n  to  that  shop  as 
soon  as  he  could  conveniently,  and  buy  the  clasps 
for  Lady  Mallinger.  But  he  was  hindered  for 
several  days  by  Sir  Hugo,  who,  about  to  make 
an  after-dinner  speech  on  a  burning  topic, 
wanted  Deronda  to  forage  for  him  on  the  legal 
part  of  the  question,  besides  wasting  time  every 
day  on  argument  which  always  ended  in  a  drawn 
battle.  As  on  many  other  questions,  they  held 
different  sides ;  but  Sir  Hugo  did  not  mind  this, 
and  when  Deronda  put  his  point  well,  said,  with 
a  mixture  of  satisfaction  and  regret,  — 

"  Confound  it,  Dan!  why  don't  you  make  an 
opportunity  of  saying  these  things  in  public? 
You  're  wrong,  you  know.  You  won't  succeed. 
You 've  got  the  massive  sentiment,  —  the  heavy 
artillery  of  the  country  against  you.  But  it 's 
all  the  better  ground  for  a  young  man  to  dis- 
play himself  on.  When  I  was  your  age,  I 
should  have  taken  it.  And  it  would  be  quite 
as  well  for  you  to  be  in  opposition  to  me  here 
and  there.  It  would  throw  you  more  into  relief. 
If  you  would  seize  an  occasion  of  this  sort  to 
make  an  impression,  you  might  be  in  Parliament 
in  no  time.  And  you  know  that  would  gratify 
me." 

"  I  am  sorry  not  to  do  what  would  gratify 
you,  sir,"  said  Deronda.  "  But  I  cannot  per- 
suade myself  to  look  at  politics  as  a  profession." 

"  Why  not?  If  a  man  is  not  born  into  public 
life  by  his  position  in  the  country,  there 's  no 
way  for  him  but  to  embrace  it  by  his  own 
efforts.    The  business  of  the  country  must  be 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  155 


done,  —  her  Majesty's  Government  carried  on, 
as  the  old  Duke  said.  And  it  never  could  be, 
my  boy,  if  everybody  looked  at  politics  as  if 
they  were  prophecy,  and  demanded  an  inspired 
vocation.  If  you  are  to  get  into  Parliament,  it 
won't  do  to  sit  still  and  wait  for  a  call  either 
from  heaven  or  constituents." 

"  I  don't  want  to  make  a  living  out  of  opin- 
ions," said  Deronda;  "especially  out  of  bor- 
rowed opinions.  Not  that  I  mean  to  blame 
other  men.  I  dare  say  many  better  fellows 
than  I  don't  mind  getting  on  to  a  platform  to 
praise  themselves,  and  giving  their  word  of 
honour  for  a  party." 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what,  Dan,"  said  Sir  Hugo, 
"  a  man  who  sets  his  face  against  every  sort  of 
humbug  is  simply  a  three-cornered,  impracti- 
cable fellow.  There 's  a  bad  style  of  humbug, 
but  there  is  also  a  good  style,  —  one  that  oils 
the  wheels  and  makes  progress  possible.  If  you 
are  to  rule  men,  you  must  rule  them  through 
their  own  ideas;  and  I  agree  with  the  Arch- 
bishop at  Naples  who  had  a  St.  Januarius  pro- 
cession against  the  plague.  It 's  no  use  having 
an  Order  in  Council  against  popular  shallow- 
ness. There  is  no  action  possible  without  a  little 
acting." 

"  One  may  be  obliged  to  give  way  to  an  oc- 
casional necessity,"  said  Deronda.  "  But  it  is 
one  thing  to  say,  '  In  this  particular  case  I  am 
forced  to  put  on  this  foolscap  and  grin,'  and 
another  to  buy  a  pocket  foolscap  and  practise 
myself  in  grinning.  I  can't  see  any  real  public 
expediency  that  does  not  keep  an  ideal  before 
it  which  makes  a  limit  of  deviation  from  the 


156  DANIEL  DERONDA 


direct  path.  But  if  I  were  to  set  up  for  a 
public  man  I  might  mistake  my  own  success 
for  pubhc  expediency." 

It  was  after  this  dialogue,  which  was  rather 
jarring  to  him,  that  Deronda  set  out  on  his 
meditated  second  visit  to  Ezra  Cohen's.  He 
entered  the  street  at  the  end  opposite  to  the 
Holborn  entrance,  and  an  inward  reluctance 
slackened  his  pace  while  his  thoughts  were 
transferring  what  he  had  just  been  saying  about 
public  expediency  to  the  entirely  private  diffi- 
culty which  brought  him  back  again  into  this 
unattractive  thoroughfare.  It  might  soon  be- 
come an  immediate  practical  question  with  him 
how  far  he  could  call  it  a  wise  expediency  to 
conceal  the  fact  of  close  kindred.  Such  ques- 
tions turning  up  constantly  in  life  are  often 
decided  in  a  rough-and-ready  way ;  and  to  many 
it  will  appear  an  over-refinement  in  Deronda 
that  he  should  make  any  great  point  of  a  matter 
confined  to  his  own  knowledge.  But  we  have 
seen  the  reasons  why  he  had  come  to  regard 
concealment  as  a  bane  of  life,  and  the  necessity 
of  concealment  as  a  mark  by  which  lines  of  ac- 
tion were  to  be  avoided.  The  prospect  of  being 
urged  against  the  confirmed  habit  of  his  mind 
was  naturally  grating.  He  even  paused  here 
and  there  before  the  most  plausible  shop- win- 
dows for  a  gentleman  to  look  into,  half  inclined 
to  decide  that  he  would  not  increase  his  knowl- 
edge about  that  modern  Ezra,  who  was  certainly 
not  a  leader  among  his  people,  —  a  hesitation 
which  proved  how,  in  a  man  much  given  to 
reasoning,  a  bare  possibility  may  weigh  more 
than  the  best-clad  likelihood;  for  Deronda's 


-GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  157 


reasoning  had  decided  that  all  likelihood  was 
against  this  man's  being  Mirah's  brother. 

One  of  the  shop- windows  he  paused  before 
was  that  of  a  second-hand  book-shop,  where, 
on  a  narrow  table  outside,  the  literature  of  the 
ages  was  represented  in  judicious  mixture,  from 
the  immortal  verse  of  Homer  to  the  mortal  prose 
of  the  railway  novel.  That  the  mixture  was 
judicious  was  apparent  from  Deronda's  finding 
in  it  something  that  he  wanted,  —  namely,  that 
wonderful  bit  of  autobiography,  the  life  of  the 
Polish  Jew,  Salomon  Maimon;  which,  as  he 
could  easily  slip  it  into  his  pocket,  he  took  from 
its  place,  and  entered  the  shop  to  pay  for,  ex- 
pecting to  see  behind  the  counter  a  grimy  per- 
sonage showing  that  nonchalance  about  sales 
which  seems  to  belong  universally  to  the  second- 
hand book-business.  In  most  other  trades  you 
find  generous  men  who  are  anxious  to  sell  you 
their  wares  for  your  own  welfare;  but  even  a 
Jew  will  not  urge  Simson's  Euclid  on  you  with 
an  affectionate  assurance  that  you  will  have 
pleasure  in  reading  it,  and  that  he  wishes  he 
had  twenty  more  of  the  article,  so  much  is  it 
in  request.  One  is  led  to  fear  that  a  second- 
hand bookseller  may  belong  to  that  unhappy 
class  of  men  who  have  no  belief  in  the  good  of 
what  they  get  their  living  by,  yet  keep  con- 
science enough  to  be  morose  rather  than  unctu- 
ous in  their  vocation. 

But  instead  of  the  ordinary  tradesman,  he 
saw,  on  the  dark  background  of  books  in  the 
long  narrow  shop,  a  figure  that  was  somewhat 
startling  in  its  unusualness.  A  man  in  thread- 
bare clothing,  whose  age  was  difficult  to  guess, 


158  DANIEL  DERONDA 


■ —  from  the  dead  yellowish  flatness  of  the 
flesh,  something  like  an  old  ivory  carving,  — 
was  seated  on  a  stool  against  some  bookshelves 
that  projected  beyond  the  short  counter,  doing 
nothing  more  remarkable  than  reading  the  yes- 
terday's "  Times;  "  but  when  he  let  the  paper 
rest  on  his  lap  and  looked  at  the  incoming  cus- 
tomer, the  thought  glanced  through  Deronda 
that  precisely  such  a  physiognomy  as  that  might 
possibly  have  been  seen  in  a  prophet  of  the  Exile, 
or  in  some  New  Hebrew  poet  of  the  mediseval 
time.  It  was  a  finely  typical  Jewish  face, 
wrought  into  intensity  of  expression  apparently 
by  a  strenuous  eager  experience  in  which  all 
the  satisfaction  had  been  indirect  and  far  off, 
and  perhaps  by  some  bodily  suffering  also, 
which  involved  that  absence  of  ease  in  the  pres- 
ent. The  features  were  clear-cut,  not  large; 
the  brow  not  high  but  broad,  and  fully  defined 
by  the  crisp  black  hair.  It  might  never  have 
been  a  particularly  handsome  face,  but  it  must 
always  have  been  forcible;  and  now  with  its 
dark,  far-off  gaze,  and  yellow  pallor  in  relief 
on  the  gloom  of  the  backward  shop,  one  might 
have  imagined  one's  self  coming  upon  it  in  some 
past  prison  of  the  Inquisition,  which  a  mob  had 
suddenly  burst  open;  while  the  look  fixed  on 
an  incidental  customer  seemed  eager  and  ques- 
tioning enough  to  have  been  turned  on  one  who 
might  have  been  a  messenger  either  of  delivery 
or  of  death.  The  figure  was  probably  familiar 
and  unexciting  enough  to  the  inhabitants  of  this 
street;  but  to  Deronda's  mind  it  brought  so 
strange  a  blending  of  the  unwonted  with  the 
common,  that  there  was  a  perceptible  interval 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  159 


of  mutual  observation  before  he  asked  his  ques- 
tion: "  What  is  the  price  of  this  book?  " 

After  taking  the  book  and  examining  the  fly- 
leaves without  rising,  the  supposed  bookseller 
said,  "  There  is  no  mark,  and  Mr.  Ram  is  not 
in  now.  I  am  keeping  the  shop  while  he  is  gone 
to  dinner.  What  are  you  disposed  to  give  for 
it?  "  He  held  the  book  closed  on  his  lap  with 
his  hand  on  it,  and  looked  examiningly  at  De- 
ronda,  over  whom  there  came  the  disagreeable 
idea,  that  possibly  this  striking  personage 
wanted  to  see  how  much  could  be  got  out  of 
a  customer's  ignorance  of  prices.  But  without 
further  reflection  he  said,  "  Don't  you  know  how 
much  it  is  worth?  " 

"  Not  its  market-price.  May  I  ask,  have  you 
read  it?  " 

"  No.  I  have  read  an  account  of  it,  which 
makes  me  want  to  buy  it." 

"  You  are  a  man  of  learning,  —  you  are  in- 
terested in  Jewish  history?  "  This  was  said  in 
a  deepened  tone  of  eager  inquiry. 

"  I  am  certainly  interested  in  Jewish  history," 
said  Deronda,  quietly,  curiosity  overcoming  his 
dislike  to  the  sort  of  inspection  as  well  as  ques- 
tioning he  was  under. 

But  immediately  the  strange  Jew  rose  from 
his  sitting  posture,  and  Deronda  felt  a  thin 
hand  pressing  his  arm  tightly,  while  a  hoarse, 
excited  voice,  not  much  above  a  loud  whisper, 
said,  — 

"  You  are  perhaps  of  our  race?  " 

Deronda  coloured  deeply,  not  liking  the 
grasp,  and  then  answered  with  a  slight  shake 
of  the  head,  "  No."    The  grasp  was  relaxed, 


160  DANIEL  DERONDA 


the  hand  withdrawn,  the  eagerness  of  the  face 
collapsed  into  uninterested  melancholy,  as  if 
some  possessing  spirit  which  had  leaped  into 
the  eyes  and  gestures  had  sunk  back  again  to 
the  inmost  recesses  of  the  frame;  and  moving 
further  off  as  he  held  out  the  little  book,  the 
stranger  said  in  a  tone  of  distant  civility,  "  I 
believe  Mr.  Ram  will  be  satisfied  with  half  a 
crown,  sir." 

The  effect  of  this  change  on  Deronda  —  he 
afterwards  smiled  when  he  recalled  it  —  was 
oddly  embarrassing  and  humiliating,  as  if 
some  high  dignitary  had  found  him  deficient 
and  given  him  his  conge.  There  was  nothing 
further  to  be  said,  however:  he  paid  his 
half-crown  and  carried  off  his  Salomon  Mai- 
mon's  Lebensgeschichte  with  a  mere  "  good 
morning." 

He  felt  some  vexation  at  the  sudden  arrest 
of  the  interview,  and  the  apparent  prohibition 
that  he  should  know  more  of  this  man,  who  was 
certainly  something  out  of  the  common  way,  — 
as  different  probably  as  a  Jew  could  well  be 
from  Ezra  Cohen,  through  whose  door  Deronda 
was  presently  entering,  and  whose  flourishing 
face  glistening  on  the  way  to  fatness  was  hang- 
ing over  the  counter  in  negotiation  with  some 
one  on  the  other  side  of  the  partition,  concern- 
ing two  plated  stoppers  and  three  teaspoons, 
which  lay  spread  before  him.  Seeing  Deronda 
enter,  he  called  out,  "Mother!  Mother!"  and 
then  with  a  familiar  nod  and  smile,  said,  "  Com- 
ing, sir,  —  coming  directly." 

Deronda  could  not  help  looking  towards  the 
door  from  the  baclj  with  some  anxiety,  which 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  161 


was  not  soothed  when  he  saw  a  vigorous  woman 
beyond  fifty  enter  and  approach  to  serve  him. 
Not  that  there  was  anything  very  repulsive 
about  her:  the  worst  that  could  be  said  was 
that  she  had  that  look  of  having  made  her  toilet 
with  little  water,  and  by  twilight,  which  is  com- 
mon to  unyouthful  people  of  her  class,  and  of 
having  presumably  slept  in  her  large  earrings, 
if  not  in  her  rings  and  necklace.  In  fact,  what 
caused  a  sinking  of  heart  in  Deronda  was,  her 
not  being  so  coarse  and  ugly  as  to  exclude  the 
idea  of  her  being  Mirah's  mother.  Any  one 
who  has  looked  at  a  face  to  try  and  discern 
signs  of  known  kinship  in  it  will  understand  his 
process  of  conjecture,  —  how  he  tried  to  think 
away  the  fat  which  had  gradually  disguised  the 
outlines  of  youth,  and  to  discern  what  one  may 
call  the  elementary  expressions  of  the  face.  He 
was  sorry  to  see  no  absolute  negative  to  his 
fears.  Just  as  it  was  conceivable  that  this  Ezra, 
brought  up  to  trade,  might  resemble  the  scape- 
grace father  in  everything  but  his  knowledge 
and  talent,  so  it  was  not  impossible  that  this 
mother  might  have  had  a  lovely  refined  daugh- 
ter whose  type  of  feature  and  expression  was 
like  Mirah's.  The  eyebrows  had  a  vexatious 
similarity  of  line;  and  who  shall  decide  how  far 
a  face  may  be  masked  when  the  uncherishing 
years  have  thrust  it  far  onward  in  the  ever- 
new  procession  of  youth  and  age?  The  good- 
humour  of  the  glance  remained  and  shone  out 
in  a  motherly  way  at  Deronda,  as  she  said,  in 
a  mild  guttural  tone,  — 

"  How  can  I  serve  you,  sir?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  look  at  the  silver  clasps  in 

TOL.  XIII— 11 


162  DANIEL  DERONDA 


the  window,"  said  Deronda;  "the  larger  ones, 
please,  in  the  corner  there." 

They  were  not  quite  easy  to  get  at  from  the 
mother's  station,  and  the  son  seeing  this  called 
out,  "  I  '11  reach  'em,  mother,  I  '11  reach  'em," 
running  forward  with  alacrity,  and  then  hand- 
ing the  clasps  to  Deronda  with  the  smiling 
remark,  — 

"  Mother 's  too  proud:  she  wants  to  do  every- 
thing herself.  That 's  why  I  called  her  to  wait 
on  you,  sir.  When  there  's  a  particular  gentle- 
man customer,  sir,  I  dare  n't  do  any  other  than 
call  her.  But  I  can't  let  her  do  herself  a  mis- 
chief with  stretching." 

Here  Mr.  Cohen  made  way  again  for  his 
parent,  who  gave  a  little  guttural  amiable  laugh 
while  she  looked  at  Deronda,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  This  boy  will  be  at  his  jokes,  but  you  see  he 's 
the  best  son  in  the  world;  "  and  evidently  the 
son  enjoyed  pleasing  her,  though  he  also  wished 
to  convey  an  apology  to  his  distinguished  cus- 
tomer for  not  giving  him  the  advantage  of  his 
own  exclusive  attention. 

Deronda  began  to  examine  the  clasps  as  if 
he  had  many  points  to  observe  before  he  could 
come  to  a  decision. 

"  They  are  only  three  guineas,  sir,"  said  the 
mother,  encouragingly. 

"  First-rate  workmanship,  sir,  —  worth  twice 
the  money;  only  I  got  'em  a  bargain  from 
Cologne,"  said  the  son,  parenthetically,  from  a 
distance. 

Meanwhile  two  new  customers  entered,  and 
the  repeated  call,  "Addy!"  brought  from  the 
back  of  the  shop  a  group  that  Deronda  turned 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  163 


frankly  to  stare  at,  feeling  sure  that  the  stare 
would  be  held  complimentary.  The  group  con- 
sisted of  a  black-eyed  young  woman  who  car- 
ried a  black-eyed  little  one,  its  head  already 
well  covered  with  black  curls,  and  deposited  it 
on  the  counter,  from  which  station  it  looked 
round  with  even  more  than  the  usual  intelligence 
of  babies ;  also  a  robust  boy  of  six  and  a  younger 
girl,  both  with  black  eyes  and  black-ringed  hair, 
—  looking  more  Semitic  than  their  parents,  as 
the  puppy  lions  show  the  spots  of  far-off  pro- 
genitors. The  young  woman  answering  to 
"  Addy  "  —  a  sort  of  paroquet  in  a  bright  blue 
dress,  with  coral  necklace  and  earrings,  her  hair 
set  up  in  a  huge  bush  —  looked  as  complacently 
lively  and  unrefined  as  her  husband;  and  by 
a  certain  difference  from  the  mother  deepened 
in  Deronda  the  unwelcome  impression  that  the 
latter  was  not  so  utterly  common  a  Jewess  as 
to  exclude  her  being  the  mother  of  Mirah. 
While  that  thought  was  glancing  through  his 
mind,  the  boy  had  run  forward  into  the  shop 
with  an  energetic  stamp,  and  setting  himself 
about  four  feet  from  Deronda,  with  his  hands 
in  the  pockets  of  his  miniature  knickerbockers, 
looked  at  him  with  a  precocious  air  of  survey. 
Perhaps  it  was  chiefly  with  a  diplomatic  design 
to  linger  and  ingratiate  himself  that  Deronda 
patted  the  boy's  head,  saying,  — 

"  What  is  your  name,  sirrah?  " 

"  Jacob  Alexander  Cohen,"  said  the  small 
man  with  much  ease  and  distinctness. 

"  You  are  not  named  after  your  father,  then?  " 

''No;  after  my  grandfather.  He  sells  knives 
and   razors    and   scissors,  —  my  grandfather 


164  DANIEL  DERONDA 


does,"  said  Jacob,  wishing  to  impress  the 
stranger  with  that  high  connection.  "  He  gave 
me  this  knife."  Here  a  pocket-knife  was  drawn 
forth ;  and  the  small  fingers,  both  naturally  and 
artificially  dark,  opened  two  blades  and  a  cork- 
screw with  much  quickness. 

"  Is  not  that  a  dangerous  plaything? "  said 
Deronda,  turning  to  the  grandmother. 

''He'll  never  hurt  himself,  bless  you!"  said 
she,  contemplating  her  grandson  with  placid 
rapture. 

"  Have  you  got  a  knife?  "  says  Jacob,  coming 
closer.  His  small  voice  was  hoarse  in  its  glib- 
ness,  as  if  it  belonged  to  an  aged  commercial 
soul,  fatigued  with  bargaining  through  many 
generations. 

"  Yes.  Do  you  want  to  see  it?  "  said  Deronda, 
taking  a  small  penknife  from  his  waistcoat- 
pocket. 

Jacob  seized  it  immediately  and  retreated  a 
little,  holding  the  two  knives  in  his  palms  and 
bending  over  them  in  meditative  comparison. 
By  this  time  the  other  clients  were  gone,  and  the 
whole  family  had  gathered  to  the  spot,  centring 
their  attention  on  the  marvellous  Jacob:  the 
father,  mother,  and  grandmother  behind  the 
counter,  with  baby  held  staggering  thereon,  and 
the  little  girl  in  front  leaning  at  her  brother's 
elbow  to  assist  him  in  looking  at  the  knives. 

"  Mine 's  the  best,"  said  Jacob,  at  last,  re- 
turning Deronda's  knife  as  if  he  had  been  enter- 
taining the  idea  of  exchange  and  had  rejected  it. 

Father  and  mother  laughed  aloud  with  de- 
light. "  You  won't  find  Jacob  choosing  the 
worst,"  said  Mr.  Cohen,  winking,  with  much 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  165 


confidence  in  the  customer's  admiration.  De- 
ronda,  looking  at  the  grandmother,  who  had 
only  an  inward  silent  laugh,  said,  — 

"  Are  these  the  only  grandchildren  you 
have?" 

"  All.  This  is  my  only  son,"  she  answered, 
in  a  communicative  tone,  Deronda's  glance  and 
manner  as  usual  conveying  the  impression  of 
sympathetic  interest,  —  which  on  this  occasion 
answered  his  purpose  well.  It  seemed  to  come 
naturally  enough  that  he  should  say,  — 

"  And  you  have  no  daughter?  " 

There  was  an  instantaneous  change  in  the 
mother's  face.  Her  lips  closed  more  firmly,  she 
looked  down,  swept  her  hands  outward  on  the 
counter,  and  finally  turned  her  back  on  Deronda 
to  examine  some  Indian  handkerchiefs  that 
hung  in  pawn  behind  her.  Her  son  gave  a  sig- 
nificant glance,  set  up  his  shoulders  an  instant, 
and  just  put  his  finger  to  his  lips,  —  then  said 
quickly,  "  I  think  you  're  a  first-rate  gentleman 
in  the  city,  sir,  if  I  may  be  allowed  to  guess." 

"  No,"  said  Deronda,  with  a  preoccupied  air, 
"  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  city." 

"  That 's  a  bad  job.  I  thought  you  might  be 
the  young  principal  of  a  first-rate  firm,"  said 
Mr.  Cohen,  wishing  to  make  amends  for  the 
check  on  his  customer's  natural  desire  to  know 
more  of  him  and  his.  "  But  you  understand 
silver-work,  I  see." 

"  A  little,"  said  Deronda,  taking  up  the  clasps 
a  moment  and  laying  them  down  again.  That 
unwelcome  bit  of  circumstantial  evidence  had 
made  his  mind  busy  with  a  plan  which  was  cer- 
tainly more  like  acting  than  an\i:hing  he  had 


166  DANIEL  DERONDA 


been  aware  of  in  his  own  conduct  before.  But 
the  bare  possibility  that  more  knowledge  might 
nullify  the  evidence,  now  overpowered  the  incli- 
nation to  rest  in  uncertainty. 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,"  he  went  on,  "  my 
errand  is  not  so  much  to  buy  as  to  borrow.  I 
dare  say  you  go  into  rather  heavy  transactions 
occasionally." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  've  accommodated  gentlemen  of 
distinction,  —  I 'm  proud  to  say  it.  I  would  n't 
exchange  my  business  with  any  in  the  world. 
There 's  none  more  honourable,  nor  more  char- 
itable, nor  more  necessary  for  all  classes,  from 
the  good  lady  who  wants  a  little  of  the  ready  for 
the  baker,  to  a  gentleman  like  yourself,  sir,  who 
may  want  it  for  amusement.  I  like  my  business, 
I  like  my  street,  and  I  like  my  shop.  I  would  n't 
have  it  a  door  further  down.  And  I  would  n't 
be  without  a  pawn-shop,  sir,  to  be  the  Lord 
Mayor.  It  puts  you  in  connection  with  the 
world  at  large.  I  say  it 's  like  the  Government 
revenue,  —  it  embraces  the  brass  as  well  as  the 
gold  of  the  country.  And  a  man  who  does  n't 
get  money,  sir,  can't  accommodate.  Now,  what 
can  I  do  for  you,  sir?  " 

If  an  amiable  self-satisfaction  is  the  mark 
of  earthly  bliss,  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was 
a  pitiable  mortal  compared  with  Mr.  Cohen,  — 
clearly  one  of  those  persons  who,  being  in  excel- 
lent spirits  about  themselves,  are  willing  to  cheer 
strangers  by  letting  them  know  it.  While  he 
was  delivering  himself  with  lively  rapidity,  he 
took  the  baby  from  his  wife,  and  holding  it  on 
his  arm  presented  his  features  to  be  explored  by 
its  small  fists.  Deronda,  not  in  a  cheerful  mood. 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  167 


was  rashly  pronouncing  this  Ezra  Cohen  to  be 
the  most  unpoetic  Jew  he  had  ever  met  with  in 
books  or  Hfe:  his  phraseology  was  as  little  as 
possible  like  that  of  the  Old  Testament;  and 
no  shadow  of  a  Suffering  Race  distinguished  his 
vulgarity  of  soul  from  that  of  a  prosperous  pink- 
and-white  huckster  of  the  purest  English  lin- 
eage. It  is  naturally  a  Christian  feeling  that  a 
Jew  ought  not  to  be  conceited.  However,  this 
was  no  reason  for  not  persevering  in  his  project; 
and  he  answered  at  once  in  adventurous  igno- 
rance of  technicalities,  — 

"  I  have  a  fine  diamond  ring  to  offer  as  secur- 
ity,—  not  with  me  at  this  moment,  unfortu- 
nately, for  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  wearing  it. 
But  I  will  come  again  this  evening  and  bring 
it  with  me.  Fifty  pounds  at  once  would  be  a 
convenience  to  me." 

"  Well,  you  know,  this  evening  is  the  Sabbath, 
young  gentleman,"  said  Cohen,  "  and  I  go  to 
the  Shool.  The  shop  will  be  closed.  But  accom- 
modation is  a  work  of  charity;  if  you  can't  get 
here  before,  and  are  any  ways  pressed,  —  why, 
I  '11  look  at  your  diamond.  You  're  perhaps 
from  the  West  End,  —  a  longish  drive?" 

"  Yes;  and  your  Sabbath  begins  early  at  this 
season.  I  could  be  here  by  five,  —  will  that 
do?  "  Deronda  had  not  been  without  hope  that 
by  asking  to  come  on  a  Friday  evening  he  might 
get  a  better  opportunity  of  observing  points  in 
the  family  character,  and  might  even  be  able  to 
put  some  decisive  question. 

Cohen  assented;  but  here  the  marvellous 
Jacob,  whose  physique  supported  a  precocity 
that  would  have  shattered  a  Gentile  of  his  years. 


168  DANIEL  DERONDA 


showed  that  he  had  been  hstening  with  much 
comprehension  by  saying,  "  You  are  coming 
again.  Have  you  got  any  more  knives  at 
home?" 

"  I  think  I  have  one,"  said  Deronda,  smiUng 
down  at  him. 

"  Has  it  two  blades  and  a  hook  —  and  a  white 
handle  like  that?"  said  Jacob,  pointing  to  the 
waistcoat-pocket. 

"  I  dare  say  it  has." 

"Do  you  like  a  cork-screw?"  said  Jacob, 
exhibiting  that  article  in  his  own  knife  again, 
and  looking  up  with  serious  inquiry. 

"  Yes,"  said  Deronda,  experimentally. 

"  Bring  your  knife,  then,  and  we  '11  shwop," 
said  Jacob,  returning  the  knife  to  his  pocket,  and 
stamping  about  with  the  sense  that  he  had  con- 
cluded a  good  transaction. 

The  grandmother  had  now  recovered  her  usual 
manners,  and  the  whole  family  watched  Deronda 
radiantly  when  he  caressingly  lifted  the  little 
girl,  to  whom  he  had  not  hitherto  given  atten- 
tion, and  seating  her  on  the  counter,  asked  for 
her  name  also.  She  looked  at  him  in  silence,  and 
put  her  fingers  to  her  gold  earrings,  which  he 
did  not  seem  to  have  noticed. 

"  Adelaide  Rebekah  is  her  name,"  said  her 
mother,  proudly.  "  Speak  to  the  gentleman, 
lovey." 

"  Shlav'm  Shabbes  fyock  on,"  said  Adelaide 
Rebekah. 

"  Her  Sabbath  frock,  she  means,"  said  the 
father,  in  explanation.  "  She  '11  have  her  Sab- 
bath frock  on  this  evening." 

"  And  will  you  let  me  see  you  in  it,  Adelaide?  " 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  169 


said  Deronda,  with  that  gentle  intonation  which 
came  very  easily  to  him. 

"  Say  yes,  lovey,  —  yes,  if  you  please,  sir," 
said  her  mother,  enchanted  with  this  handsome 
young  gentleman,  who  appreciated  remarkable 
children. 

"  And  will  you  give  me  a  kiss  this  evening?  " 
said  Deronda,  with  a  hand  on  each  of  her  little 
brown  shoulders. 

Adelaide  Rebekah  (her  miniature  crinoline 
and  monumental  features  corresponded  with  the 
combination  of  her  names)  immediately  put  up 
her  lips  to  pay  the  kiss  in  advance;  whereupon 
her  father,  rising  into  still  more  glowing  satis- 
faction with  the  general  meritoriousness  of  his 
circumstances,  and  with  the  stranger  who  was 
an  admiring  witness,  said  cordially,  — 

"  You  see  there 's  somebody  will  be  disap- 
pointed if  you  don't  come  this  evening,  sir.  You 
won't  mind  sitting  down  in  our  family  place  and 
waiting  a  bit  for  me,  if  I 'm  not  in  when  you 
come,  sir?  I  '11  stretch  a  point  to  accommodate 
a  gent  of  your  sort.  Bring  the  diamond,  and 
I  '11  see  what  I  can  do  for  you." 

Deronda  thus  left  the  most  favourable  im- 
pression behind  him,  as  a  preparation  for  more 
easy  intercourse.  But  for  his  own  part  those 
amenities  had  been  carried  on  under  the  heaviest 
spirits.  If  these  were  really  Mirah's  relatives, 
he  could  not  imagine  that  even  her  fervid  filial 
piety  could  give  the  reunion  with  them  any 
sweetness  beyond  such  as  could  be  found  in  the 
strict  fulfilment  of  a  painful  duty.  What  did 
this  vaunting  brother  need?  And  with  the  most 
favourable   supposition  about  the  hypothetic 


170  DANIEL  DERONDA 

mother,  Deronda  shrank  from  the  image  of  a 
first  meeting  between  her  and  Mirah,  and  still 
more  from  the  idea  of  Mirah's  domestication 
with  this  family.  He  took  refuge  in  disbelief. 
To  find  an  Ezra  Cohen  when  the  name  was  run- 
ning in  your  head  was  no  more  extraordinary 
than  to  find  a  Josiah  Smith  under  like  circum- 
stances; and  as  to  the  coincidence  about  the 
daughter,  it  would  probably  turn  out  to  be  a 
difference.  If,  however,  further  knowledge 
confirmed  the  more  undesirable  conclusion,  what 
would  be  wise  expediency?  —  to  try  and  deter- 
mine the  best  consequences  by  concealment,  or 
to  brave  other  consequences  for  the  sake  of  that 
openness  which  is  the  sweet  fresh  air  of  our  moral 
fife. 


CHAPTER  VII 


Er  ist  geheissen 
Israel.    Ihn  hat  verwandelt 
Hexenspruch  in  einen  Hund, 

Aber  jeden  Freitag  Abend, 
In  der  Dammrungstunde,  plotzlich 
Weicht  der  Zauber,  und  der  Hund 
Wird  aufs  Neu'  ein  menschlich  Wesen. 

Heine:  Prinzessin  Sabbath. 

WHEN  Deronda  arrived  at  five  o'clock, 
the  shop  was  closed  and  the  door  was 
opened  for  him  by  the  Christian  ser- 
vant. When  she  showed  him  into  the  room  be- 
hind the  shop,  he  was  surprised  at  the  prettiness 
of  the  scene.  The  house  was  old,  and  rather 
extensive  at  the  back:  probably  the  large  room 
he  now  entered  was  gloomy  by  daylight,  but 
now  it  was  agreeably  lit  by  a  fine  old  brass 
lamp  with  seven  oil-lights  hanging  above  the 
snow-white  cloth  spread  on  the  central  table. 
The  ceiling  and  walls  were  smoky,  and  all  the 
surroundings  were  dark  enough  to  throw  into 
relief  the  human  figures,  which  had  a  Venetian 
glow  of  colouring.  The  grandmother  was  ar- 
rayed in  yellowish  brown  with  a  large  gold 
chain  in  lieu  of  the  necklace,  and  by  this  light 
her  yellow  face  with  its  darkly  marked  eye- 
brows and  framing  roll  of  gray  hair  looked  as 
handsome  as  was  necessary  for  picturesque 
effect.  Young  Mrs.  Cohen  was  clad  in  red  and 
black,  with  a  string  of  large  artificial  pearls 
wound  round  and  round  her  neck:   the  baby 


172  DANIEL  DERONDA 


lay  asleep  in  the  cradle  under  a  scarlet  counter- 
pane ;  Adelaide  Rebekah  was  in  braided  amber ; 
and  Jacob  Alexander  was  in  black  velveteen 
with  scarlet  stockings.  As  the  four  pairs  of 
black  eyes  all  glistened  a  welcome  at  Deronda, 
he  was  almost  ashamed  of  the  supercilious  dis- 
like these  happy-looking  creatures  had  raised 
in  him  by  daylight.  Nothing  could  be  more 
cordial  than  the  greeting  he  received,  and  both 
mother  and  grandmother  seemed  to  gather  more 
dignity  from  being  seen  on  the  private  hearth, 
showing  hospitality.  He  looked,  round  with 
some  wonder  at  the  old  furniture:  the  oaken 
bureau  and  high  side  table  must  surely  be  mere 
matters  of  chance  and  economy,  and  not  due 
to  the  family  taste.  A  large  dish  of  blue-and- 
yellow  ware  was  set  up  on  the  side  table,  and 
flanking  it  were  two  old  silver  vessels;  in  front 
of  them  a  large  volume  in  darkened  vellum  with 
a  deep-ribbed  back.  In  the  corner  at  the  farther 
end  was  an  open  door  into  an  inner  room,  where 
there  was  also  a  light. 

Deronda  took  in  these  details  by  parenthetic 
glances  while  he  met  Jacob's  pressing  solicitude 
about  the  knife.  He  had  taken  the  pains  to  buy 
one  with  the  requisites  of  the  hook  and  white 
handle,  and  produced  it  on  demand,  saying,  — 

"Is  that  the  sort  of  thing  you  want,  Jacob?  " 

It  was  subjected  to  a  severe  scrutiny,  the  hook 
and  blades  were  opened,  and  the  article  of  barter 
with  the  corkscrew  was  drawn  forth  for  com- 
parison. 

"  Why  do  you  like  a  hook  better  than  a  cork- 
screw? "  said  Deronda. 

"  'Caush  I  can  get  hold  of  things  with  a  hook. 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  173 


A  corkscrew  won't  go  into  anything  but  corks. 
But  it 's  better  for  you,  you  can  draw  corks." 

"  You  agree  to  change,  then?  "  said  Deronda, 
observing  that  the  grandmother  was  hstening 
with  dehght. 

"  What  else  have  you  got  in  your  pockets?  " 
said  Jacob,  with  dehberative  seriousness. 

"  Hush,  hush,  Jacob,  love,"  said  the  grand- 
mother. And  Deronda,  mindful  of  discipline, 
answered,  — 

"  I  think  I  must  not  tell  you  that.  Our  busi- 
ness was  with  the  knives." 

Jacob  looked  up  into  his  face  scanningly  for 
a  moment  or  two,  and  apparently  arriving  at 
his  conclusions,  said  gravely,  — 

"  I  '11  shwop,"  handing  the  cork-screw  knife 
to  Deronda,  who  pocketed  it  with  corresponding 
gravity. 

Immediately  the  small  son  of  Shem  ran  off 
into  the  next  room,  whence  his  voice  was  heard 
in  rapid  chat ;  and  then  ran  back  again,  —  when, 
seeing  his  father  enter,  he  seized  a  little  velveteen 
hat  which  lay  on  a  chair  and  put  it  on  to  ap- 
proach him.  Cohen  kept  on  his  own  hat,  and 
took  no  notice  of  the  visitor,  but  stood  still  while 
the  two  children  went  up  to  him  and  clasped 
his  knees :  then  he  laid  his  hands  on  each  in  turn, 
and  uttered  his  Hebrew  benediction;  where- 
upon the  wife,  who  had  lately  taken  baby  from 
the  cradle,  brought  it  up  to  her  husband,  and 
held  it  under  his  outstretched  hands,  to  be 
blessed  in  its  sleep.  For  the  moment  Deronda 
thought  that  this  pawnbroker  proud  of  his  voca- 
tion was  not  utterly  prosaic. 

"  Well,  sir,  you  found  your  welcome  in  my 


174  DANIEL  DERONDA 

family,  I  think,"  said  Cohen,  putting  down  his 
hat  and  becoming  his  former  self.  "And  you  Ve 
been  punctual.  Nothing  like  a  little  stress 
here,"  he  added,  tapping  his  side  pocket  as  he 
sat  down.  "  It 's  good  for  us  all  in  our  turn. 
I  Ve  felt  it  when  I 've  had  to  make  up  payments. 
I  began  early,  —  had  to  turn  myself  about  and 
put  myself  into  shapes  to  fit  every  sort  of  box. 
It 's  bracing  to  the  mind.  Now  then !  let  us 
see,  let  us  see." 

"  That  is  the  ring  I  spoke  of,"  said  Deronda, 
taking  it  from  his  finger.  "  I  believe  it  cost  a 
hundred  pounds.  It  will  be  a  sufficient  pledge 
to  you  for  fifty,  I  think.  I  shall  probably  re- 
deem it  in  a  month  or  so." 

Cohen's  glistening  eyes  seemed  to  get  a  little 
nearer  together  as  he  met  the  ingenuous  look 
of  this  crude  young  gentleman,  who  apparently 
supposed  that  redemption  was  a  satisfaction  to 
pawnbrokers.  He  took  the  ring,  examined  and 
returned  it,  saying  with  indifference,  "  Good, 
good.  We  '11  talk  of  it  after  our  meal.  Per- 
haps you  '11  join  us,  if  you 've  no  objection.  Me 
and  my  wife  '11  feel  honoured,  and  so  will 
mother;  won't  you,  mother?" 

The  invitation  was  doubly  echoed,  and  De- 
ronda gladly  accepted  it.  All  now  turned  and 
stood  round  the  table.  No  dish  was  at  present 
seen  except  one  covered  with  a  napkin;  and 
Mrs.  Cohen  had  placed  a  china  bowl  near  her 
husband,  that  he  might  wash  his  hands  in  it. 
But  after  putting  on  his  hat  again,  he  paused, 
and  called  in  a  loud  voice,  "  Mordecai!  " 

Can  this  be  part  of  the  religious  ceremony? 
thought  Deronda,  not  knowing  what  might  be 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  175 


expected  of  the  ancient  hero.  But  he  heard  a 
"  Yes  "  from  the  next  room,  which  made  him 
look  towards  the  open  door;  and  there,  to  his 
astonishment,  he  saw  the  figure  of  the  enigmatic 
Jew  whom  he  had  this  morning  met  with  in  the 
book-shop.  Their  eyes  met,  and  Mordecai 
looked  as  much  surprised  as  Deronda,  —  neither 
in  his  surprise  making  any  sign  of  recognition. 
But  when  Mordecai  was  seating  himself  at  the 
end  of  the  table,  he  just  bent  his  head  to  the 
guest  in  a  cold  and  distant  manner,  as  if  the  dis- 
appointment of  the  morning  remained  a  dis- 
agreeable association  with  this  new  acquaintance. 

Cohen  now  washed  his  hands,  pronouncing 
Hebrew  words  the  while:  afterwards  he  took 
off  the  napkin  covering  the  dish,  and  disclosed 
the  two  long  flat  loaves  besprinkled  with  seed, 
—  the  memorial  of  the  manna  that  fed  the  wan- 
dering forefathers,  —  and  breaking  off  small 
pieces  gave  one  to  each  of  the  family,  including 
Adelaide  Rebekah,  who  stood  on  the  chair  with 
her  whole  length  exhibited  in  her  amber-coloured 
garment,  her  little  Jewish  nose  lengthened  by 
compression  of  the  lip  in  the  effort  to  make  a 
suitable  appearance.  Cohen  then  uttered  an- 
other Hebrew  blessing,  and  after  that,  the  male 
heads  were  uncovered,  all  seated  themselves, 
and  the  meal  went  on  without  any  peculiarity 
that  interested  Deronda.  He  was  not  very 
conscious  of  what  dishes  he  ate  from,  being  pre- 
occupied, with  a  desire  to  turn  the  conversation 
in  a  way  that  would  enable  him  to  ask  some 
leading  question;  and  also  with  thinking  of 
Mordecai,  between  whom  and  himself  there  was 
an  exchange  of  fascinated,  half -furtive  glances. 


176  DANIEL  DERONDA 


Mordecai  had  no  handsome  Sabbath  garment, 
but  instead  of  the  threadbare  rusty  black  coat 
of  the  morning  he  wore  one  of  hght  drab,  which 
looked  as  if  it  had  once  been  a  handsome  loose 
paletot  now  shrunk  with  washing;  and  this 
change  of  clothing  gave  a  still  stronger  accen- 
tuation to  his  dark-haired,  eager  face,  which 
might  have  belonged  to  the  prophet  Ezekiel,  — 
also  probably  not  modish  in  the  eyes  of  con- 
temporaries. It  was  noticeable  that  the  thin 
tails  of  the  fried  fish  were  given  to  Mordecai; 
and  in  general  the  sort  of  share  assigned  to  a 
poor  relation  —  no  doubt  a  "  survival  "  of  pre- 
historic practice,  not  yet  generally  admitted  to 
be  superstitious. 

Mr.  Cohen  kept  up  the  conversation  with 
much  liveliness,  introducing  as  subjects  always 
in  taste  (the  Jew  is  proud  of  his  loyalty)  the 
Queen  and  the  Royal  Family,  the  Emperor 
and  Empress  of  the  French,  —  into  which  both 
grandmother  and  wife  entered  with  zest.  Mrs. 
Cohen  the  younger  showed  an  accurate  memory 
of  distinguished  birthdays;  and  the  elder  as- 
sisted her  son  in  informing  the  guest  of  what 
occurred  when  the  Emperor  and  Empress  were 
in  England  and  visited  the  city,  ten  years 
before. 

"  I  dare  say  you  know  all  about  it  better  than 
we  do,  sir,"  said  Cohen,  repeatedly,  by  way  of 
preface  to  full  information;  and  the  interesting 
statements  were  kept  up  in  a  trio. 

"  Our  baby  is  named  Eugenie  Esther,"  said 
young  Mrs.  Cohen,  vivaciously. 

"  It 's  wonderful  how  the  Emperor 's  like  a 
cousin  of  mine  in  the  face,"  said  the  grand- 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  177 


mother;  "it  struck  me  like  lightning  when  I 
caught  sight  of  him.  I  could  n't  have  thought 
it." 

"  Mother  and  me  went  to  see  the  Emperor 
and  Empress  at  the  Crystal  Palace,"  said  Mr. 
Cohen.  "  I  had  a  fine  piece  of  work  to  take 
care  of  mother;  she  might  have  been  squeezed 
flat,  —  though  she  was  pretty  near  as  lusty  then 
as  she  is  now.  I  said,  if  I  had  a  hundred  mothers 
I 'd  never  take  one  of  'em  to  see  the  Emperor 
and  Empress  at  the  Crystal  Palace  again;  and 
you  may  think  a  man  can't  afford  it  when  he  's 
got  but  one  mother,  —  not  if  he  'd  ever  so  big 
an  insurance  on  her."  He  stroked  his  mother's 
shoulder  affectionately,  and  chuckled  a  little  at 
his  own  humour. 

"  Your  mother  has  been  a  widow  a  long  while, 
perhaps,  said  Deronda,  seizing  his  opportunity. 
"  That  has  made  your  care  for  her  the  more 
needfuL" 

"  Ay,  ay,  it 's  a  good  many  yore-zeit  since  I 
had  to  manage  for  her  and  myself,"  said  Cohen, 
quickly.  "  I  went  early  to  it.  It 's  that  makes 
you  a  sharp  knife." 

"  What  does  —  what  makes  a  sharp  knife, 
father?  "  said  Jacob,  his  cheek  very  much  swol- 
len with  sweet-cake. 

The  father  winked  at  his  guest  and  said, 
"  Having  your  nose  put  on  the  grindstone." 

Jacob  slipped  from  his  chair  with  the  piece 
of  sweet-cake  in  his  hand,  and  going  close  up 
to  Mordecai,  who  had  been  totally  silent  hitherto, 
said,  "  What  does  that  mean,  —  putting  my  nose 
to  the  grindstone?  " 

"  It  means  that  you  are  to  bear  being  hurt 

;       VOL.  XIII  —  12 


178  DANIEL  DERONDA 


without  making  a  noise,"  said  Mordecai,  turning 
his  eyes  benignantly  on  the  small  face  close  to 
his.  Jacob  put  the  corner  of  the  cake  into 
Mordecai's  mouth  as  an  invitation  to  bite,  say- 
ing meanwhile,  "  I  sha'n't  though,"  and  keep- 
ing his  eyes  on  the  cake  to  observe  how  much 
of  it  went  in  this  act  of  generosity.  Mordecai 
took  a  bite  and  smiled,  evidently  meaning  to 
please  the  lad;'  and  the  little  incident  made  them 
both  look  more  lovable.  Deronda,  however,  felt 
with  some  vexation  that  he  had  taken  little  by 
his  question. 

"  I  fancy  that  is  the  right  quarter  for  learn- 
ing," said  he,  carrying  on  the  subject  that  he 
might  have  an  excuse  for  addressing  Mordecai, 
to  whom  he  turned  and  said,  "  You  have  been 
a  great  student,  I  imagine." 

"  I  have  studied,"  was  the  quiet  answer. 
"  And  you?  —  You  know  German,  by  the  book 
you  were  buying." 

"  Yes,  I  have  studied  in  Germany.  Are 
you  generally  engaged  in  bookselling? "  said 
Deronda. 

"  No;  I  only  go  to  Mr.  Ram's  shop  every  day 
to  keep  it  while  he  goes  to  meals,"  said  Mor- 
decai, who  was  now  looking  at  Deronda  with 
what  seemed  a  revival  of  his  original  interest: 
it  seemed  as  if  the  face  had  some  attractive 
indication  for  him  which  now  neutralized  the 
former  disappointment.  After  a  slight  pause 
he  said,  "  Perhaps  you  know  Hebrew?  " 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say,  not  at  all." 

Mordecai's  countenance  fell :  he  cast  down  his 
eyelids,  looking  at  his  hands,  which  lay  crossed 
before  him,  and  said  no  more.    Deronda  had 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  179 


now  noticed  more  decisively  than  in  their  former 
interview  a  difficulty  of  breathing,  which  he 
thought  must  be  a  sign  of  consumption. 

"  I 've  had  something  else  to  do  than  to  get 
book-learning,"  said  Mr.  Cohen,  —  "  I 've  had 
to  make  myself  knowing  about  useful  things. 
I  know  stones  well,"  —  here  he  pointed  to  De- 
ronda's  ring.  "  I 'm  not  afraid  of  taking  that 
ring  of  yours  at  my  own  valuation.  But  now," 
he  added,  with  a  certain  drop  in  his  voice  to 
a  lower,  more  familiar  nasal,  "  what  do  you 
want  for  it?  " 

"  Fifty  or  sixty  pounds,"  Deronda  answered, 
rather  too  carelessly. 

Cohen  paused  a  little,  thrust  his  hands  into 
his  pockets,  fixed  on  Deronda  a  pair  of  glisten- 
ing eyes  that  suggested  a  miraculous  guinea- 
pig,  and  said,  "  Could  n't  do  you  that.  Happy 
to  oblige,  but  could  n't  go  that  lengths.  Forty 
pound  —  say  forty  —  I  '11  let  you  have  forty 
on  it." 

^  Deronda  was  aware  that  Mordecai  had  looked 
up  again  at  the  words  implying  a  monetary 
affair,  and  was  now  examining  him  again,  while 
he  said,  "  Very  well;  I  shall  redeem  it  in  a  month 
or  so." 

"  Good.  I  '11  make  you  out  the  ticket  by  and 
by,"  said  Cohen,  indifferently.  Then  he  held  up 
his  finger  as  a  sign  that  conversation  must  be  de- 
ferred. He,  Mordecai,  and  Jacob  put  on  their 
hats,  and  Cohen  opened  a  thanksgiving,  which 
was  carried  on  by  responses,  till  Mordecai  de- 
livered himself  alone  at  some  length,  in  a  solemn 
chanting  tone,  with  his  chin  slightly  uplifted  and 
his  thin  hands  clasped  easily  before  him.  Not 


180  DANIEL  DERONDA 


only  in  his  accent  and  tone,  but  in  his  freedom 
from  the  self -consciousness  which  has  reference 
to  others'  approbation,  there  could  hardly  have 
been  a  stronger  contrast  to  the  Jew  at  the  other 
end  of  the  table.  It  was  an  unaccountable  con- 
junction, —  the  presence  among  these  common, 
prosperous,  shopkeeping  types,  of  a  man  who,  in 
an  emaciated  threadbare  condition,  imposed  a 
certain  awe  on  Deronda,  and  an  embarrassment 
at  not  meeting  his  expectations. 

No  sooner  had  JMordecai  finished  his  devo- 
tional strain,  than  rising,  with  a  slight  bend  of  his 
head  to  the  stranger,  he  walked  back  into  his 
room,  and  shut  the  door  behind  him. 

"  That  seems  to  be  rather  a  remarkable  man," 
said  Deronda,  turning  to  Cohen,  who  immedi- 
ately set  up  his  shoulders,  put  out  his  tongue 
slightly,  and  tapped  his  own  brow.  It  was 
clearly  to  be  understood  that  Mordecai  did  not 
come  up  to  the  standard  of  sanity  which  was  set 
by  Mr.  Cohen's  view  of  men  and  things. 

"  Does  he  belong  to  your  family?  "  said  De^ 
ronda.    This  idea  appeared  to  be  rather  ludi- 
crous to  the  ladies  as  well  as  to  Cohen,  and  the 
family  interchanged  looks  of  amusement. 

"No,  no,"  said  Cohen.  "Charity!  charity! 
He  worked  for  me,  and  when  he  got  weaker  and 
weaker  I  took  him  in.  He 's  an  incumbrance; 
but  he  brings  a  blessing  down,  and  he  teaches 
the  boy.  Besides,  he  does  the  repairing  at  the 
watches  and  jewellery." 

Deronda  hardly  abstained  from  smiling  at  this 
mixture  of  kindliness  and  the  desire  to  justify  it 
in  the  light  of  a  calculation;  but  his  willingness 
to  speak  further  of  Mordecai,  whose  character 


GWENDOLEN'S  CHOICE  181 


was  made  the  more  enigmatically  striking  by 
these  new  details,  was  baffled.  Mr.  Cohen  im- 
mediately dismissed  the  subject  by  reverting  to 
the  "  accommodation,"  which  was  also  an  act  of 
charity,  and  proceeded  to  make  out  the  ticket, 
get  the  forty  pounds,  and  present  them  both  in 
exchange  for  the  diamond  ring.  Deronda,  feel- 
ing that  it  would  be  hardly  delicate  to  protract 
his  visit  beyond  the  settlement  of  the  business 
which  was  its  pretext,  had  to  take  his  leave,  with 
no  more  decided  result  than  the  advance  of  forty 
pounds  and  the  pawn-ticket  in  his  breast-pocket, 
to  make  a  reason  for  returning  when  he  came  up 
to  town  after  Christmas.  He  was  resolved  that 
he  would  then  endeavour  to  gain  a  little  more 
insight  into  the  character  and  history  of  Mor- 
decai;  from  whom  also  he  might  gather  some- 
thing decisive  about  the  Cohens,  —  for  example, 
the  reason  why  it  was  forbidden  to  ask  Mrs. 
Cohen  the  elder  whether  she  had  a  daughter. 


MORDECAI 


CHAPTER  I 

"Were  uneasiness  of  conscience  measured  by  extent  of  crime,  human 
history  had  been  different,  and  one  should  look  to  see  the  contrivers  of 
greedy  wars  and  the  mighty  marauders  of  the  money-market  in  que 
troop  of  self-lacerating  penitents  with  the  meaner  robber  and  cut-purse 
and  the  murderer  that  doth  his  butchery  in  small  with  his  own  hand. 
No  doubt  v/ickedness  hath  its  rewards  to  distribute;  but  whoso  wins 
in  this  devil's  game  must  needs  be  baser,  more  cruel,  more  brutal  than 
the  order  of  this  planet  will  allow  for  the  multitude  born  of  woman, 
the  most  of  these  carrying  a  form  of  conscience,  —  a  fear  which  is  the 
shadow  of  justice,  a  pity  which  is  the  shadow  of  love,  —  that  hindereth 
from  the  prize  of  serene  wickedness,  itself  difficult  of  maintenance  in 
our  composite  flesh." 

ON  the  29th  of  December  Deronda  knew 
that  the  Grandcourts  had  arrived  at  the 
Abbey,  but  he  had  had  no  ghmpse  of 
them  before  he  went  to  dress  for  dinner.  There 
had  been  a  splendid  fall  of  snow,  allowing  the 
party  of  children  the  rare  pleasures  of  snow- 
balling and  snow-building,  and  in  the  Christ- 
mas holidays  the  Mallinger  girls  were  content 
with  no  amusement  unless  it  were  joined  in  and 
managed  by  "  cousin,"  as  they  had  always  called 
Deronda.  After  that  outdoor  exertion  he  had 
been  playing  billiards,  and  thus  the  hours  had 
passed  without  his  dwelling  at  all  on  the  prospect 
of  meeting  Gwendolen  at  dinner.  Nevertheless 
that  prospect  was  interesting  to  him ;  and  when, 
a  little  tired  and  heated  with  working  at  amuse- 


MORDECAI  183 

ment,  he  went  to  his  room  before  the  half -hour 
bell  had  rung,  he  began  to  think  of  it  with  some 
speculation  on  the  sort  of  influence  her  marriage 
with  Grandcourt  would  have  on  her,  and  on  the 
probability  that  there  would  be  some  discernible 
shades  of  change  in  her  manner  since  he  saw  her 
at  Diplow,  just  as  there  had  been  since  his  first 
vision  of  her  at  Leubronn. 

"  I  fancy  there  are  some  natures  one  could  see 
growing  or  degenerating  every  day,  if  one 
watched  them,"  was  his  thought.  "  I  suppose 
some  of  us  go  on  faster  than  others;  and  I  am 
sure  she  is  a  creature  who  keeps  strong  traces  of 
anything  that  has  once  impressed  her.  That 
little  affair  of  the  necklace,  and  the  idea  that 
somebody  thought  her  gambling  wrong,  had  evi- 
dently bitten  into  her.  But  such  impressibility 
tells  both  ways :  it  may  drive  one  to  desperation 
as  soon  as  to  anything  better.  And  whatever 
fascinations  Grandcourt  may  have  for  capri- 
cious tastes,  good  heavens!  who  can  believe 
that  he  would  call  out  the  tender  affections  in 
daily  companionship  ?  One  might  be  tempted  to 
horsewhip  him  for  the  sake  of  getting  some  show 
of  passion  into  his  face  and  speech.  I 'm  afraid 
she  married  him  out  of  ambition,  —  to  escape 
poverty.  But  why  did  she  run  out  of  his  way  at 
first?  The  poverty  came  after,  though.  Poor 
thing!  she' may  have  been  urged  into  it.  How 
can  one  feel  anything  else  than  pity  for  a  young 
creature  like  that  —  full  of  unused  life  —  igno- 
rantly  rash  —  hanging  all  her  blind  expectations 
on  that  remnant  of  a  human  being!  " 

Doubtless  the  phrases  which  Deronda's  medi- 
tation applied  to  the  bridegroom  were  the  less 


184  DANIEL  DERONDA 


complimentary  for  the  excuses  and  pity  in  which 
it  clad  the  bride.  His  notion  of  Grandcourt  as  a 
"  remnant  "  was  founded  on  no  particular  knowl- 
edge, but  simply  on  the  impression  which  or- 
dinary polite  intercourse  had  given  him  that 
Grandcourt  had  worn  out  all  his  natural  healthy 
interest  in  things. 

In  general,  one  may  be  sure  that  whenever  a 
marriage  of  any  mark  takes  place,  male  ac- 
quaintances are  likely  to  pity  the  bride,  female 
acquaintances  the  bridegroom:  each,  it  is 
thought,  might  have  done  better ;  and  especially 
where  the  bride  is  charming,  young  gentlemen 
on  the  scene  are  apt  to  conclude  that  she  can  have 
no  real  attachment  to  a  fellow  so  uninteresting 
to  themselves  as  her  husband,  but  has  married 
him  on  other  grounds.  Who  under  such  circum- 
stances pities  the  husband?  Even  his  female 
friends  are  apt  to  think  his  position  retributive: 
he  should  have  chosen  some  one  else.  But  per- 
haps Deronda  may  be  excused  that  he  did  not 
prepare  any  pity  for  Grandcourt,  who  had  never 
struck  acquaintances  as  likely  to  come  out  of  his 
experiences  with  more  suffering  than  he  inflicted ; 
whereas  for  Gwendolen,  young,  headlong,  eager 
for  pleasure,  fed  with  the  flattery  which  makes 
a  lovely  girl  believe  in  her  divine  right  to  rule,  — 
how  quickly  might  life  turn  from  expectancy  to  a 
bitter  sense  of  the  irremediable !  After  what  he 
had  seen  of  her  he  must  have  had  rather  dull  feel- 
ings not  to  have  looked  forward  with  some  inter- 
est to  her  entrance  into  the  room.  Still,  since  the 
honeymoon  was  already  three  weeks  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  Gwendolen  had  been  enthroned  not 
only  at  Ry elands  but  at  Diplow,  she  was  likely 


MORDECAI 


185 


to  have  composed  her  countenance  with  suitable 
manifestation  or  concealment,  not  being  one  who 
would  indulge  the  curious  by  a  helpless  exposure 
of  her  feelings. 

A  various  party  had  been  invited  to  meet  the 
new  couple :  the  old  aristocracy  was  represented 
by  Lord  and  Lady  Pentreath ;  the  old  gentry  by 
young  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fitzadam  of  the  Worces- 
tershire branch  of  the  Fitzadams;  politics  and 
the  public  good,  as  specialized  in  the  cider  in- 
terest, by  Mr.  Fenn,  member  for  West  Orchards, 
accompanied  by  his  two  daughters;  Lady  Mal- 
linger's  family,  by  her  brother,  Mr.  Raymond, 
and  his  wife ;  the  useful  bachelor  element  by  Mr. 
Sinker,  the  eminent  counsel,  and  by  Mr.  Vander- 
noodt,  whose  acquaintance  Sir  Hugo  had  found 
pleasant  enough  at  Leubronn  to  be  adopted  in 
England. 

All  had  assembled  in  the  drawing-room  before 
the  new  couple  appeared.  Meanwhile  the  time 
was  being  passed  chiefly  in  noticing  the  children, 
—  various  little  Raymonds,  nephews  and  nieces 
of  Lady  Mallinger's,  with  her  own  three  girls, 
who  were  always  allowed  to  appear  at  this  hour. 
The  scene  was  really  delightful,  —  enlarged  by 
full-length  portraits  with  deep  backgrounds,  in- 
serted in  the  cedar  panelling,  —  surmounted  by 
a  ceiling  that  glowed  with  the  rich  colours  of  the 
coats  of  arms  ranged  between  the  sockets,  —  il- 
luminated almost  as  much  by  the  red  fire  of  oak- 
boughs  as  by  the  pale  wax-lights, — stilled  by  the 
deep-piled  carpet  and  by  the  high  English  breed- 
ing that  subdues  all  voices;  while  the  mixture 
of  ages,  from  the  white-haired  Lord  and  Lady 
Pentreath  to  the  four-year-old  Edgar  Raymond, 


186  DANIEL  DERONDA 


gave  a  varied  charm  to  the  living  groups.  Lady 
Malhnger,  with  fair  matronly  roundness  and 
mildly  prominent  blue  eyes,  moved  about  in  her 
black  velvet,  carrying  a  tiny  white  dog  on  her 
arm  as  a  sort  of  finish  to  her  costume;  the  chil- 
dren were  scattered  among  the  ladies,  while  most 
of  the  gentlemen  were  standing  rather  aloof,  con- 
versing with  that  very  moderate  vivacity  observ- 
able during  the  long  minutes  before  dinner. 
Deronda  was  a  little  out  of  the  circle  in  a  dia- 
logue fixed  upon  him  by  Mr.  Vandernoodt,  a 
man  of  the  best  Dutch  blood  imported  at  the  rev- 
olution: for  the  rest,  one  of  those  commodious 
persons  in  society  who  are  nothing  particular 
themselves,  but  are  understood  to  be  acquainted 
with  the  best  in  every  department ;  close-clipped, 
pale-eyed,  nonchalant,  as  good  a  foil  as  could 
well  be  found  to  the  intense  colouring  and  vivid 
gravity  of  Deronda. 

He  was  talking  of  the  bride  and  bridegroom, 
whose  appearance  was  being  waited  for.  Mr. 
Vandernoodt  was  an  industrious  gleaner  of  per- 
sonal details,  and  could  probably  tell  everything 
about  a  great  philosopher  or  physicist  except  his 
theories  or  discoveries:  he  was  now  implying 
that  he  had  learned  many  facts  about  Grand- 
court  since  meeting  him  at  Leubronn. 

"  Men  who  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  life  don't 
always  end  by  choosing  their  wives  so  well.  He 
has  had  rather  an  anecdotic  history,  —  gone 
rather  deep  into  pleasures,  I  fancy,  lazy  as  he  is. 
But,  of  course,  you  know  all  about  him." 

"  No,  really,"  said  Deronda,  in  an  indifferent 
tone.  "  I  know  little  more  of  him  than  that  he 
is  Sir  Hugo's  nephew." 


MORDECAI 


187 


But  now  the  door  opened,  and  deferred  any 
satisfaction  of  Mr.  Vandernoodt's  communica- 
tiveness. 

The  scene  was  one  to  set  off  any  figure  of  dis- 
tinction that  entered  on  it;  and  certainly  when 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grandcourt  entered,  no  beholder 
could  deny  that  their  figures  had  distinction. 
The  bridegroom  had  neither  more  nor  less  easy 
perfection  of  costume,  neither  more  nor  less  well- 
cut  impassibility  of  face,  than  before  his  mar- 
riage. It  was  to  be  supposed  of  him  that  he 
would  put  up  with  nothing  less  than  the  best  in 
outward  equipment,  wife  included ;  and  the  bride 
was  what  he  might  have  been  expected  to  choose. 
"  By  George,  I  think  she  's  handsomer,  if  any- 
thing! "  said  Mr.  Vandernoodt.  And  Deronda 
was  of  the  same  opinion,  but  he  said  nothing. 
The  white  silk  and  diamonds  —  it  may  seem 
strange,  but  she  did  wear  the  diamonds  on  her 
neck,  in  her  ears,  in  her  hair  —  might  have  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  new  imposingness  of  her 
beauty,  which  flashed  on  him  as  more  unquestion- 
able if  not  more  thoroughly  satisfactory  than 
when  he  had  first  seen  her  at  the  gaming-table. 
Some  faces  which  are  peculiar  in  their  beauty  are 
like  original  works  of  art:  for  the  first  time  they 
are  almost  always  met  with  question.  But  in 
seeing  Gwendolen  at  Diplow,  Deronda  had  dis- 
cerned in  her  more  than  he  had  expected  of  that 
tender  appealing  charm  which  we  call  womanly. 
Was  there  any  new  change  since  then?  He  dis- 
trusted his  impressions ;  but  as  he  saw  her  receiv- 
ing greetings  with  what  seemed  a  proud  cold 
quietude  and  a  superficial  smile,  there  seemed  to 
be  at  work  within  her  the  same  demonic  force 


188  DANIEL  DERONDA 


that  had  possessed  her  when  she  took  him  in  her 
resolute  glance  and  turned  away  a  loser  from  the 
gaming-table.  There  was  no  time  for  more  of  a 
conclusion,  —  no  time  even  for  him  to  give  his 
greeting  before  the  summons  to  dinner. 

He  sat  not  far  from  opposite  to  her  at  table, 
and  could  sometimes  hear  what  she  said  in  answer 
to  Sir  Hugo,  who  was  at  his  liveliest  in  conversa- 
tion with  her ;  but  though  he  looked  towards  her 
with  the  intention  of  bowing,  she  gave  him  no 
opportunity  of  doing  so  for  some  time.  At 
last  Sir  Hugo,  who  might  have  imagined  that 
they  had  already  spoken  to  each  other,  said, 
"  Deronda,  you  will  like  to  hear  what  Mrs. 
Grandcourt  tells  me  about  your  favourite 
Klesmer." 

Gwendolen's  eyelids  had  been  lowered;  and 
Deronda,  already  looking  at  her,  thought  he  dis- 
covered a  quivering  reluctance  as  she  was  obliged 
to  raise  them  and  return  his  unembarrassed  bow 
and  smile,  her  own  smile  being  one  of  the  lip 
merely.  It  was  but  an  instant,  and  Sir  Hugo 
continued  without  pause,  — 

"  The  Arrowpoints  have  condoned  the  mar- 
riage, and  he  is  spending  the  Christmas  with  his 
bride  at  Quetcham." 

"  I  suppose  he  will  be  glad  of  it  for  the  sake  of 
his  wife,  else  I  dare  say  he  would  not  have 
minded  keeping  at  a  distance,"  said  Deronda. 

"  It 's  a  sort  of  troubadour  story,"  said  Lady 
Pentreath,  an  easy,  deep-voiced  old  lady;  "  I 'm 
glad  to  find  a  little  romance  left  among  us.  I 
think  our  young  people  now  are  getting  too 
worldly  wise." 

"  It  shows  the  Arrowpoints'  good  sense,  how- 


MORDECAI 


189 


ever,  to  have  adopted  the  affair,  after  the  fuss  in 
the  papers,"  said  Sir  Hugo.  "  And  disowning 
your  own  child  because  of  a  mesalliance  is  some- 
thing hke  disowning  your  one  eye:  everybody 
knows  it 's  yours,  and  you  have  no  other  to  make 
an  appearance  with." 

"  As  to  mesalliance,  there 's  no  blood  on  any 
side,"  said  Lady  Pentreath.  "  Old  Admiral  Ar- 
rowpoint  was  one  of  Nelson's  men,  you  know, 
—  a  doctor's  son.  And  we  all  know  how  the 
mother's  money  came." 

"If  there  were  any  mesalliance  in  the  case,  I 
should  say  it  was  on  Klesmer's  side,"  said 
Deronda. 

"  Ah,  you  think  it  is  a  case  of  the  immortal 
marrying  the  mortal.  What  is  your  opinion?  " 
said  Sir  Hugo,  looking  at  Gwendolen. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  that  Herr  Klesmer  thinks 
himself  immortal.  But  I  dare  say  his  wife  will 
burn  as  much  incense  before  him  as  he  requires," 
said  Gwendolen.  She  had  recovered  any  com- 
posure that  she  might  have  lost. 

"  Don't  you  approve  of  a  wife  burning  incense 
before  her  husband?  "  said  Sir  Hugo,  with  an  air 
of  jocoseness. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Gwendolen,  "if  it  were  only 
to  make  others  believe  in  him."  She  paused  a 
moment,  and  then  said  with  more  gayety, 
"  When  Herr  Klesmer  admires  his  own  genius, 
it  will  take  off  some  of  the  absurdity  if  his  wife 
says  Amen." 

"  Klesmer  is  no  favourite  of  yours,  I  see,"  said 
Sir  Hugo. 

"  I  think  very  highly  of  him,  I  assure  you," 
said  Gwendolen.   "  His  genius  is  quite  above  my 


190         DANIEL  DERONDA 


judgment,  and  I  know  him  to  be  exceedingly 
generous." 

She  spoke  with  the  sudden  seriousness  which  is 
often  meant  to  correct  an  unfair  or  indiscreet 
sally,  having  a  bitterness  against  Klesmer  in  her 
secret  soul  which  she  knew  herself  unable  to  jus- 
tify. Deronda  was  wondering  what  he  should 
have  thought  of  her  if  he  had  never  heard  of  her 
before :  probably  that  she  put  on  a  little  hardness 
and  defiance  by  way  of  concealing  some  painful 
consciousness,  —  if,  indeed,  he  could  imagine  her 
manners  otherwise  than  in  the  light  of  his  sus- 
picion. But  why  did  she  not  recognize  him  with 
more  friendliness? 

Sir  Hugo,  by  way  of  changing  the  subject, 
said  to  her:  "  Is  not  this  a  beautiful  room?  It 
was  part  of  the  refectory  of  the  Abbey.  There 
was  a  division  made  by  those  pillars  and  the  three 
arches,  and  afterwards  they  were  built  up.  Else 
it  was  half  as  large  again  originally.  There  used 
to  be  rows  of  Benedictines  sitting  where  we  are 
sitting.  Suppose  we  were  suddenly  to  see  the 
lights  burning  low  and  the  ghosts  of  the  old 
monks  rising  behind  all  our  chairs!  " 

"  Please  don't!  "  said  Gwendolen,  with  a  play- 
ful shudder.  "  It  is  very  nice  to  come  after  an- 
cestors and  monks,  but  they  should  know  their 
places  and  keep  underground.  I  should  be 
rather  frightened  to  go  about  this  house  all  alone. 
I  suppose  the  old  generations  must  be  angry  with 
us  because  we  have  altered  things  so  much." 

"  Oh,  the  ghosts  must  be  of  all  political  par- 
ties," said  Sir  Hugo.  "  And  those  fellows  who 
wanted  to  change  things  while  they  lived  and 
could  n't  do  it  must  be  on  our  side.   But  if  you 


MORDECAI 


191 


would  not  like  to  go  over  the  house  alone,  you 
will  like  to  go  in  company,  I  hope.  You  and 
Grandcourt  ought  to  see  it  all.  And  we  will  ask 
Deronda  to  go  round  with  us.  He  is  more 
learned  about  it  than  I  am."  The  baronet  was 
in  the  most  complaisant  of  humours. 

Gwendolen  stole  a  glance  at  Deronda,  who 
must  have  heard  what  Sir  Hugo  said,  for  he  had 
his  face  turned  towards  them,  helping  himself  to 
an  entree;  but  he  looked  as  impassive  as  a  pic- 
ture. At  the  notion  of  Deronda's  showing  her 
and  Grandcourt  the  place  which  was  to  be  theirs, 
and  which  she  with  painful  emphasis  remembered 
might  have  been  his  (perhaps,  if  others  had  acted 
differently) ,  certain  thoughts  had  rushed  in,  — 
thoughts  often  repeated  within  her,  but  now  re- 
turning on  an  occasion  embarrassingly  new ;  and 
she  was  conscious  of  something  furtive  and  awk- 
ward in  her  glance,  which  Sir  Hugo  must  have 
noticed.  With  her  usual  readiness  of  resource 
against  betrayal,  she  said  playfully,  "  You  don't 
know  how  much  I  am  afraid  of  Mr.  Deronda." 

"  How 's  that?  Because  you  think  him  too 
learned?  "  said  Sir  Hugo,  whom  the  peculiarity 
of  her  glance  had  not  escaped. 

"  No.  It  is  ever  since  I  first  saw  him  at  Leu- 
bronn.  Because  when  he  came  to  look  on  at  the 
roulette-table,  I  began  to  lose.  He  cast  an  evil 
eye  on  my  play.  He  did  n't  approve  it.  He  has 
told  me  so.  And  now  whatever  I  do  before  him, 
I  am  afraid  he  will  cast  an  evil  eye  upon  it." 

"Gad!  I'm  rather  afraid  of  him  mj^self 
when  he  does  n't  approve,"  said  Sir  Hugo, 
glancing  at  Deronda;  and  then,  turning  his 
face  towards  Gwendolen,  he  said  less  audibly, 


192  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  I  don't  think  ladies  generally  object  to  have 
his  eyes  upon  them."  The  baronet's  small 
chronic  complaint  of  facetiousness  was  at  this 
moment  almost  as  annoying  to  Gwendolen  as 
it  often  was  to  Deronda. 

"  I  object  to  any  eyes  that  are  critical,"  she 
said,  in  a  cool  high  voice,  with  a  turn  of  her  neck. 
"  Are  there  many  of  these  old  rooms  left  in  the 
Abbey?" 

"  Not  many.  There  is  a  fine  cloistered  court 
with  a  long  gallery  above  it.  But  the  finest  bit 
of  all  is  turned  into  stables.  It  is  part  of  the  old 
church.  When  I  improved  the  place,  I  made  the 
most  of  every  other  bit;  but  it  was  out  of  my 
reach  to  change  the  stables,  so  the  horses  have  the 
benefit  of  the  fine  old  choir.  You  must  go  and 
see  it." 

"  I  shall  Uke  to  see  the  horses  as  well  as  the 
building,"  said  Gwendolen. 

"  Oh,  I  have  no  stud  to  speak  of.  Grand- 
court  will  look  with  contempt  at  my  horses,"  said 
Sir  Hugo.  "  I 've  given  up  hunting,  and  go  on 
in  a  jog-trot  way,  as  becomes  an  old  gentleman 
with  daughters.  The  fact  is,  I  went  in  for  doing 
too  much  at  this  place.  We  all  lived  at  Diplow 
for  two  years  while  the  alterations  were  going  on. 
Do  you  like  Diplow?  " 

"  Not  particularly,"  said  Gwendolen,  with  in- 
difference. One  would  have  thought  that  the 
young  lady  had  all  her  life  had  more  family  seats 
than  she  cared  to  go  to. 

"  Ah!  it  will  not  do  after  Ryelands,"  said  Sir 
Hugo,  well  pleased.  "  Grandcourt,  I  know, 
took  it  for  the  sake  of  the  hunting.  But  he 
found  something  so  much  better  there,"  added 


MORDECAI 


193 


the  baronet,  lowering  his  voice,  "  that  he  might 
well  prefer  it  to  any  other  place  in  the  world." 

"  It  has  one  attraction  for  me,"  said  Gwendo- 
len, passing  over  this  compliment  with  a  chill 
smile,  —  "  that  it  is  within  reach  of  Offendene." 

"  I  understand  that,"  said  Sir  Hugo,  and  then 
let  the  subject  drop. 

What  amiable  baronet  can  escape  the  effect  of 
a  strong  desire  for  a  particular  possession!  Sir 
Hugo  would  have  been  glad  that  Grandcourt, 
with  or  without  reason,  should  prefer  any  other 
place  to  Diplow;  but  inasmuch  as  in  the  pure 
process  of  wishing  we  can  always  make  the  con- 
ditions of  our  gratification  benevolent,  he  did 
wish  that  Grandcourt 's  convenient  disgust  for 
Diplow  should  not  be  associated  with  his  mar- 
riage of  this  very  charming  bride.  Gwendolen 
was  much  to  the  baronet's  taste;  but,  as  he  ob- 
served afterwards  to  Lady  Mallinger,  he  should 
never  have  taken  her  for  a  young  girl  who  had 
married  beyond  her  expectations. 

Deronda  had  not  heard  much  of  this  conversa- 
tion, having  given  his  attention  elsewhere;  but 
the  glimpses  he  had  of  Gwendolen's  manner 
deepened  the  impression  that  it  had  something 
newly  artificial. 

Later  in  the  drawing-room,  Deronda,  at  some- 
body's request,  sat  down  to  the  piano  and  sang. 
Afterwards  Mrs.  Raymond  took  his  place ;  and 
on  rising  he  observed  that  Gwendolen  had  left 
her  seat,  and  had  come  to  this  end  of  the  room,  as 
if  to  listen  more  fully,  but  was  now  standing  with 
her  back  to  every  one,  apparently  contemplating 
a  fine  cowled  head  carved  in  ivory  which  hung 
over  a  small  table.    He  longed  to  go  to  her  and 

\0L.  Xlll  — 13 


194  DANIEL  DERONDA 


speak.  Why  should  he  not  obey  such  an  impulse, 
as  he  would  have  done  towards  any  other  lady 
in  the  room?  Yet  he  hesitated  some  moments, 
observing  the  graceful  lines  of  her  back,  but  not 
moving. 

If  you  have  any  reason  for  not  indulging  a 
wish  to  speak  to  a  fair  woman,  it  is  a  bad  plan  to 
look  long  at  her  back:  the  wish  to  see  what  it 
screens  becomes  the  stronger.  There  may  be  a 
very  sweet  smile  on  the  other  side.  Deronda 
ended  by  going  to  the  end  of  the  small  table,  at 
right  angles  to  Gwendolen's  position;  but  before 
he  could  speak  she  had  turned  on  him  no  smile, 
but  such  an  appealing  look  of  sadness,  so  utterly 
different  from  the  chill  effort  of  her  recognition 
at  table,  that  his  speech  was  checked.  For  what 
was  an  appreciable  space  of  time  to  both,  though 
the  observation  of  others  could  not  have  meas- 
ured it,  they  looked  at  each  other,  —  she  seem- 
ing to  take  the  deep  rest  of  confession,  he  with 
an  answering  depth  of  sympathy  that  neutral- 
ized other  feelings. 

"  Will  you  not  join  in  the  music?  "  he  said,  by 
way  of  meeting  the  necessity  for  speech. 

That  her  look  of  confession  had  been  involun- 
tary was  shown  by  that  just  perceptible  shake 
and  change  of  countenance  with  which  she 
roused  herself  to  reply  calmly,  "  I  join  in  it  by 
listening.   I  am  fond  of  music." 

"  Are  you  not  a  musician?  " 

"  I  have  given  a  great  deal  of  time  to  music. 
But  I  have  not  talent  enough  to  make  it  worth 
while.   I  shall  never  sing  again." 

"  But  if  you  are  fond  of  music,  it  will  always 
be  worth  while  in  private,  for  your  own  delight. 


MORDECAI 


195 


I  make  it  a  virtue  to  be  content  with  my  mid- 
dlingness,"  said  Deronda,  smiling  ;  "  it  is  always 
pardonable,  so  that  one  does  not  ask  others  to 
take  it  for  superiority." 

"  I  cannot  imitate  you,"  said  Gwendolen,  re- 
covering her  tone  of  artificial  vivacity.  "  To  be 
middling  with  me  is  another  phrase  for  being 
dull.  And  the  worst  fault  I  have  to  find  with 
the  world  is,  that  it  is  dull.  Do  you  know,  I 
am  going  to  justify  gambling  in  spite  of  you. 
It  is  a  refuge  from  dulness." 

"  I  don't  admit  the  justification,"  said  De- 
ronda. "  I  think  what  we  call  the  dulness  of 
things  is  a  disease  in  ourselves.  Else  how  could 
any  one  find  an  intense  interest  in  life?  And 
many  do." 

"  Ah,  I  see!  The  fault  I  find  in  the  world  is 
my  own  fault,"  said  Gwendolen,  smiling  at  him. 
Then  after  a  moment,  looking  up  at  the  ivory 
again,  she  said,  "Do  you  never  find  fault  with 
the  world  or  with  others?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  When  I  am  in  a  grumbling  mood." 

"And  hate  people?  Confess  you  hate  them 
when  they  stand  in  your  way,  —  when  their  gain 
is  your  loss?  That  is  your  own  phrase,  you 
know." 

"  We  are  often  standing  in  each  other's  way 
when  we  can't  help  it.  I  think  it  is  stupid  to 
hate  people  on  that  ground." 

"  But  if  they  injure  you  and  could  have  helped 
it?  "  said  Gwendolen,  with  a  hard  intensity  un- 
accountable in  incidental  talk  like  this. 

Deronda  wondered  at  her  choice  of  subjects. 
A  painful  impression  arrested  his  answer  a  mo- 
ment, but  at  last  he  said,  with  a  graver,  deeper 


196  DANIEL  DERONDA 


intonation,  "  Why,  then,  after  all,  I  prefer  my 
place  to  theirs." 

"  There  I  believe  you  are  right,"  said  Gwen- 
dolen, with  a  sudden  little  laugh,  and  turned  to 
join  the  group  at  the  piano. 

Deronda  looked  round  for  Grandcourt,  won- 
dering whether  he  followed  his  bride's  move- 
ments with  any  attention ;  but  it  was  rather  un- 
discerning  in  him  to  suppose  that  he  could  find 
out  the  fact.  Grandcourt  had  a  delusive  mood 
of  observing  whatever  had  an  interest  for  him, 
which  could  be  surpassed  by  no  sleepy-eyed  ani- 
mal on  the  watch  for  prey.  At  that  moment  he 
was  plunged  in  the  depth  of  an  easy-chair,  being 
talked  to  by  Mr.  Vandernoodt,  who  apparently 
thought  the  acquaintance  of  such  a  bridegroom 
worth  cultivating;  and  an  incautious  person 
might  have  supposed  it  safe  to  telegraph  secrets 
in  front  of  him,  the  common  prejudice  being  that 
your  quick  observer  is  one  whose  eyes  have  quick 
movements.  Not  at  all.  If  you  want  a  respect- 
able witness  who  will  see  nothing  inconvenient, 
choose  a  vivacious  gentleman,  very  much  on  the 
alert,  with  two  eyes  wide  open,  a  glass  in  one  of 
them,  and  an  entire  impartiality  as  to  the  purpose 
of  looking.  If  Grandcourt  cared  to  keep  any 
one  under  his  power,  he  saw  them  out  of  the 
corners  of  his  long  narrow  eyes,  and  if  they  went 
behind  him,  he  had  a  constructive  process  by 
which  he  knew  what  they  were  doing  there.  He 
knew  perfectly  well  where  his  wife  was,  and  how 
she  was  behaving.  Was  he  going  to  be  a  jealous 
husband?  Deronda  imagined  that  to  be  likely; 
but  his  imagination  was  as  much  astray  about 
Grandcourt  as  it  would  have  been  about  an  unex- 


MORDECAI 


197 


plored  continent  where  all  the  species  were  pecu- 
liar. He  did  not  conceive  that  he  himself  was  a 
likely  subject  of  jealousy,  or  that  he  should  give 
any  pretext  for  it;  but  the  suspicion  that  a  wife 
is  not  happy  naturally  leads  one  to  speculate  on 
the  husband's  private  deportment;  and  De- 
ronda  found  himself  after  one  o'clock  in  the 
morning  in  the  rather  ludicrous  position  of  sit- 
ting up  severely  holding  a  Hebrew  grammar  in 
his  hands  (for  somehow,  in  deference  to  Mor- 
decai,  he  had  begun  to  study  Hebrew) ,  with  the 
consciousness  that  he  had  been  in  that  attitude 
nearly  an  hour,  and  had  thought  of  nothing  but 
Gwendolen  and  her  husband.  To  be  an  unusual 
young  man  means  for  the  most  part  to  get  a  dif- 
ficult mastery  over  the  usual,  which  is  often  like 
the  sprite  of  ill-luck  you  pack  up  your  goods  to 
escape  from,  and  see  grinning  at  you  from  the 
top  of  your  luggage-van.  The  peculiarities  of 
Deronda's  nature  had  been  acutely  touched  by 
the  brief  incidents  and  words  which  made  the 
history  of  his  intercourse  with  Gwendolen;  and 
this  evening's  slight  addition  had  given  them 
an  importunate  recurrence.  It  was  not  vanity, 
—  it  was  ready  sympathy  that  had  made  him 
alive  to  a  certain  appealingness  in  her  behaviour 
towards  him;  and  the  difficulty  with  which  she 
had  seemed  to  raise  her  eyes  to  bow  to  him,  in 
the  first  instance,  was  to  be  interpreted  now  by 
that  unmistakable  look  of  involuntary  confidence 
which  she  had  afterwards  turned  on  him  under 
the  consciousness  of  his  approach. 

"What  is  the  use  of  it  all?"  thought  De- 
ronda,  as  he  threw  down  his  grammar,  and  began 
to  undress.   "  I  can't  do  anything  to  help  her,  — 


198  DANIEL  DERONDA 


-  nobody  can,  if  she  has  found  out  her  mistake  al- 
ready. And  it  seems  to  me  that  she  has  a  dreary 
lack  of  the  ideas  that  might  help  her.  Strange 
and  piteous  to  think  what  a  centre  of  wretched- 
ness a  delicate  piece  of  human  flesh  like  that  might 
be,  wrapped  round  with  fine  raiment,  her  ears 
pierced  for  gems,  her  head  held  loftily,  her  mouth 
all  smiling  pretence,  the  poor  soul  within  her  sit- 
ting in  sick  distaste  of  all  things !  But  what  do  I 
know  of  her?  There  may  be  a  demon  in  her  to 
match  the  worst  husband,  for  what  I  can  tell. 
She  was  clearly  an  ill-educated,  worldly  girl: 
perhaps  she  is  a  coquette." 

This  last  reflection,  not  much  believed  in,  was 
a  self-administered  dose  of  caution,  prompted 
partly  by  Sir  Hugo's  much- contemned  joking 
on  the  subject  of  flirtation.  Deronda  resolved 
not  to  volunteer  any  tete-a-tete  with  Gwendolen 
during  the  few  days  of  her  stay  at  the  Abbey; 
and  he  was  capable  of  keeping  a  resolve  in  spite 
of  much  inclination  to  the  contrary. 

But  a  man  cannot  resolve  about  a  woman's 
actions,  least  of  all  about  those  of  a  woman  like 
Gwendolen,  in  whose  nature  there  was  a  combi- 
nation of  proud  reserve  with  rashness,  of  peri- 
lously poised  terror  with  defiance,  which  might 
alternately  flatter  and  disappoint  control.  Few 
words  could  less  represent  her  than  "  coquette." 
She  had  a  native  love  of  homage,  and  belief  in 
her  own  power;  but  no  cold  artifice  for  the  sake 
of  enslaving.  And  the  poor  thing's  belief  in  her 
power,  with  her  other  dreams  before  marriage, 
had  often  to  be  thrust  aside  now  like  the  toys  of  a 
sick  child,  which  it  looks  at  with  dull  eyes,  and 
has  no  heart  to  play  with,  however  it  may  try. 


MORDECAI 


199 


The  next  day  at  lunch  Sir  Hugo  said  to  her, 
"  The  thaw  has  gone  on  Hke  magic,  and  it 's  so 
pleasant  out  of  doors  just  now,  —  shall  we  go 
and  see  the  stables  and  the  other  old  bits  about 
the  place?  " 

"  Yes,  pray,"  said  Gwendolen.  "  You  will 
like  to  see  the  stables,  Henleigh?  "  she  added, 
looking  at  her  husband. 

"  Uncommonly,"  said  Grandcourt,  with  an  in- 
difference which  seemed  to  give  irony  to  the 
word,  as  he  returned  her  look.  It  was  the  first 
time  Deronda  had  seen  them  speak  to  each  other 
since  their  arrival,  and  he  thought  their  exchange 
of  looks  as  cold  and  official  as  if  it  had  been  a 
ceremony  to  keep  up  a  charter.  Still,  the  Eng- 
lish fondness  for  reserve  will  account  for  much 
negation;  and  Grandcourt 's  manners  with  an 
extra  veil  of  reserve  over  them  might  be  ex- 
pected to  present  the  extreme  type  of  the  na- 
tional taste. 

"  Who  else  is  inclined  to  make  the  tour  of  the 
house  and  premises?"  said  Sir  Hugo.  "The 
ladies  must  muffle  themselves:  there  is  only  just 
about  time  to  do  it  well  before  sunset.  You  will 
go,  Dan,  won't  you?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Deronda,  carelessly,  knowing 
that  Sir  Hugo  would  think  any  excuse  dis- 
obliging. 

"  All  meet  in  the  library,  then,  when  they  are 
ready,  —  say  in  half  an  hour,"  said  the  baronet. 
Gwendolen  made  herself  ready  with  wonderful 
quickness,  and  in  ten  minutes  came  down  into 
the  library  in  her  sables,  plume,  and  little  thick 
boots.  As  soon  as  she  entered  the  room  she  was 
aware  that  some  one  else  was  there :  it  was  pre- 


200  DANIEL  DERONDA 


cisely  what  she  had  hoped  for.  Deronda  was 
standing  with  his  back  towards  her  at  the  far 
end  of  the  room,  and  was  looking  over  a  news- 
paper. How  could  little  thick  boots  make  any 
noise  on  an  Axminster  carpet?  And  to  cough 
would  have  seemed  an  intended  signalling  which 
her  pride  could  not  condescend  to;  also,  she 
felt  bashful  about  walking  up  to  him  and  letting 
him  know  that  she  was  there,  though  it  was  her 
hunger  to  speak  to  him  which  had  set  her  imagi- 
nation on  constructing  this  chance  of  finding 
him,  and  had  made  her  hurry  down,  as  birds 
hover  near  the  water  which  they  dare  not  drink. 
Always  uneasily  dubious  about  his  opinion  of 
her,  she  felt  a  peculiar  anxiety  to-day,  lest  he 
might  think  of  her  with  contempt,  as  one 
triumphantly  conscious  of  being  Grandcourt'-s 
wife,  the  future  lady  of  this  domain.  It  was  her 
habitual  effort  now  to  magnify  the  satisfactions 
of  her  pride,  on  which  she  nourished  her  strength ; 
but  somehow  Deronda's  being  there  disturbed 
them  all.  There  was  not  the  faintest  touch  of 
coquetry  in  the  attitude  of  her  mind  towards 
him :  he  was  unique  to  her  among  men,  because 
he  had  impressed  her  as  being  not  her  admirer 
but  her  superior:  in  some  mysterious  way  he 
was  becoming  a  part  of  her  conscience,  as  one 
woman  whose  nature  is  an  object  of  reverential 
belief  may  become  a  new  conscience  to  a  man. 

And  now  he  would  not  look  round  and  find 
out  that  she  was  there!  The  paper  crackled  in 
his  hand,  his  head  rose  and  sank,  exploring  those 
stupid  columns,  and  he  was  evidently  stroking 
his  beard,  as  if  this  world  were  a  very  easy 
affair  to  her.    Of  course  all  the  rest  of  the  com- 


MORDECAI 


201 


pany  would  soon  be  down,  and  the  opportunity 
of  her  saying  something  to  efface  her  flippancy 
of  the  evening  before,  would  be  quite  gone.  She 
felt  sick  with  irritation,  —  so  fast  do  young 
creatures  like  her  absorb  misery  through  invisi- 
ble suckers  of  their  own  fancies,  —  and  her  face 
had  gathered  that  peculiar  expression  which 
comes  with  a  mortification  to  which  tears  are 
forbidden. 

At  last  he  threw  down  the  paper  and  turned 
round. 

"  Oh,  you  are  there  already,"  he  said,  coming 
forward  a  step  or  two;  "I  must  go  and  put 
on  my  coat:" 

He  turned  aside  and  walked  out  of  the  room. 
This  was  behaving  quite  badly.  Mere  politeness 
would  have  made  him  stay  to  exchange  some 
words  before  leaving  her  alone.  It  was  true  that 
Grandcourt  came  in  with  Sir  Hugo  immediately 
after,  so  that  the  words  must  have  been  too  few 
to  be  worth  anything.  As  it  was,  they  saw  him 
walking  from  the  library  door. 

"A  —  you  look  rather  ill,"  said  Grandcourt, 
going  straight  up  to  her,  standing  in  front  of 
her,  and  looking  into  her  eyes.  "  Do  you  feel 
equal  to  the  walk?  " 

"  Yes,  I  shall  like  it,"  said  Gwendolen,  with- 
out the  slightest  rnovement  except  this  of  the 
lips. 

"  We  could  put  off  going  over  the  house,  you 
know,  and  only  go  out  of  doors,"  said  Sir  Hugo 
kindly,  while  Grandcourt  turned  aside. 

"Oh  dear,  no!"  said  Gwendolen,  speaking 
with  determination;  "let  us  put  off  nothing. 
I  want  a  long  walk." 


202 


DANIEL  DERONDA 


The  rest  of  the  walking  party  —  two  ladies 
and  two  gentlemen  besides  Deronda  —  had  now 
assembled;  and  Gwendolen,  rallying,  went  with 
due  cheerfulness  by  the  side  of  Sir  Hugo,  pay- 
ing apparently  an  equal  attention  to  the  com- 
mentaries Deronda  was  called  upon  to  give  on 
the  various  architectural  fragments,  and  to  Sir 
Hugo's  reasons  for  not  attempting  to  remedy 
the  mixture  of  the  undisguised  modern  with  the 
antique,  —  which  in  his  opinion  only  made  the 
place  the  more  truly  historical.  On  their  way 
to  the  buttery  and  kitchen  they  took  the  outside 
of  the  house,  and  paused  before  a  beautiful 
pointed  doorway,  which  was  the  only  remnant 
in  the  east  front. 

"  Well,  now,  to  my  mind,"  said  Sir  Hugo, 
"  that  is  more  interesting  standing  as  it  is  in 
the  middle  of  what  is  frankly  four  centuries 
later,  than  if  the  whole  front  had  been  dressed 
up  in  a  pretence  of  the  thirteenth  century.  Ad- 
ditions ought  to  smack  of  the  time  when  they 
are  made,  and  carry  the  stamp  of  their  period. 
I  would  n't  destroy  any  old  bits,  but  that  notion 
of  reproducing  the  old  is  a  mistake,  I  think. 
At  least,  if  a  man  likes  to  do  it  he  must  pay 
for  his  whistle.  Besides,  where  are  you  to  stop 
along  that  road,  —  making  loopholes  where 
you  don't  want  to  peep,  and  so  on?  You  may 
as  well  ask  me  to  wear  out  the  stones  with  kneel- 
ing; eh,  Grandcourt?  " 

"  A  confounded  nuisance,"  drawled  Grand- 
court.  "  I  hate  fellows  wanting  to  howl  litanies, 
—  acting  the  greatest  bores  that  have  ever 
existed." 

"  Well,  yes,  that 's  what  their  romanticism 


MORDECAI 


203 


must  come  to  J'  said  Sir  Hugo,  in  a  tone  of  con- 
fidential assent,  —  "  that  is,  if  they  carry  it  out 
logically." 

"  I  think  that  way  of  arguing  against  a 
course  because  it  may  be  ridden  down  to  an 
absurdity  would  soon  bring  life  to  a  standstill," 
said  Deronda.  "It  is  not  the  logic  of  human 
action,  but  of  a  roasting-jack,  that  must  go  on 
to  the  last  turn  when  it  has  been  once  wound  up. 
We  can  do  nothing  safely  without  some  judg- 
ment as  to  where  we  are  to  stop." 

"  I  find  the  rule  of  the  pocket  the  best  guide," 
said  Sir  Hugo,  laughingly.  "  And  as  for  most 
of  your  new-old  building,  you  had  need  to  hire 
men  to  scratch  and  chip  it  all  over  artistically 
to  give  it  an  elderly-looking  surface;  which  at 
the  present  rate  of  labour  would  not  answer." 

"  Do  you  want  to  keep  up  the  old  fashions, 
then,  Mr.  Deronda?  "  said  Gwendolen,  taking 
advantage  of  the  freedom  of  grouping  to  fall 
back  a  little,  while  Sir  Hugo  and  Grandcourt 
went  on. 

"  Some  of  them.  I  don't  see  why  we  should 
not  use  our  choice  there  as  we  do  elsewhere,  — 
or  why  either  age  or  novelty  by  itself  is  an  argu- 
ment for  or  against.  To  delight  in  doing  things 
because  our  fathers  did  them  is  good  if  it  shuts 
out  nothing  better;  it  enlarges  the  range  of 
affection,  and  affection  is  the  broadest  basis  of 
good  in  life." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  Gwendolen,  with 
a  little  surprise.  "  I  should  have  thought  you 
cared  most  about  ideas,  knowledge,  wisdom,  and 
all  that." 

"  But  to  care  about  them  is  a  sort  of  aflPec- 


204  DANIEL  DERONDA 


tion,"  said  Deronda,  smiling  at,  her  sudden 
naivete.  "  Call  it  attachment,  interest,  willing- 
ness to  bear  a  great  deal  for  the  sake  of  being 
with  them  and  saving  them  from  injury.  Of 
course  it  makes  a  difference  if  the  objects  of 
interest  are  human  beings;  but  generally  in  all 
deep  affections  the  objects  are  a  mixture  — 
half  persons  and  half  ideas  —  sentiments  and 
affections  flow  in  together." 

"  I  wonder  whether  I  understand  that,"  said 
Gwendolen,  putting  up  her  chin  in  her  old 
saucy  manner.  "  I  believe  I  am  not  very  affec- 
tionate; perhaps  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  is 
the  reason  why  I  don't  see  much  good  in 
life." 

"No,  I  did  not  mean  to  tell  you  that;  but 
I  admit  that  I  should  think  it  true  if  I  believed 
what  you  say  of  yourself,"  said  Deronda, 
gravely. 

Here  Sir  Hugo  and  Grandcourt  turned  round 
and  paused. 

"  I  never  can  get  Mr.  Deronda  to  pay  me  a 
compliment,"  said  Gwendolen.  "  I  have  quite 
a  curiosity  to  see  whether  a  little  flattery  can  be 
extracted  from  him." 

"  Ah!  "  said  Sir  Hugo,  glancing  at  Deronda, 
"  the  fact  is,  it  is  hopeless  to  flatter  a  bride.  We 
give  it  up  in  despair.  She  has  been  so  fed  on 
sweet  speeches  that  everything  we  say  seems 
tasteless." 

"  Quite  true,"  said  Gwendolen,  bending  her 
head  and  smiling.  "  Mr.  Grandcourt  won  me 
by  neatly  turned  compliments.  If  there  had 
been  one  word  out  of  place,  it  would  have  been 
fatal." 


MORDECAI 


205 


"  Do  you  hear  that?  "  said  Sir  Hugo,  looking 
at  the  husband. 

"  Yes,"  said  Grandcourt,  without  change  of 
countenance.  "It  is  a  deucedly  hard  thing  to 
keep  up,  though." 

All  this  seemed  to  Sir  Hugo  a  natural  play- 
fulness between  such  a  husband  and  wife;  but 
Deronda  wondered  at  the  misleading  alterna- 
tions in  Gwendolen's  manner,  which  at  one 
moment  seemed  to  invite  sympathy  by  childlike 
indiscretion,  at  another  to  repel  it  by  proud  con- 
cealment. He  tried  to  keep  out  of  her  way  by 
devoting  himself  to  Miss  Juliet  Fenn,  a  young 
lady  whose  profile  had  been  so  unfavourably 
decided  by  circumstances  over  which  she  had 
no  control,  that  Gwendolen  some  months  ago 
had  felt  it  impossible  to  be  jealous  of  her. 
Nevertheless  when  they  were  seeing  the  kitchen 
—  a  part  of  the  original  building  in  perfect 
preservation  —  the  depth  of  shadow  in  the 
niches  of  the  stone  walls  and  groined  vault,  the 
play  of  light  from  the  huge  glowing  fire  on 
polished  tin,  brass,  and  copper,  the  fine  reso- 
nance that  came  with  every  sound  of  voice  or 
metal,  were  all  spoiled  for  Gwendolen,  and  Sir 
Hugo's  speech  about  them  was  made  rather  im- 
portunate, because  Deronda  was  discoursing  to 
the  other  ladies  and  kept  at  a  distance  from  her. 
It  did  not  signify  that  the  other  gentlemen  took 
the  opportunity  of  being  near  her :  of  what  use 
in  the  world  was  their  admiration  while  she  had 
an  uneasy  sense  that  there  was  some  standard  in 
Deronda's  mind  which  measured  her  into  little- 
ness? Mr.  Vandernoodt,  who  had  the  mania 
of  always  describing  one  thing  while  you  were 


206  DANIEL  DERONDA 


looking  at  another,  was  quite  intolerable  with 
his  insistence  on  Lord  Blough's  kitchen,  which 
he  had  seen  in  the  north. 

"  Pray  don't  ask  us  to  see  two  kitchens  at 
once.  It  makes  the  heat  double.  I  must  really 
go  out  of  it,"  she  cried  at  last,  marching  reso- 
lutely into  the  open  air,  and  leaving  the  others 
in  the  rear.  Grandcourt  was  already  out,  and  as 
she  joined  him,  he  said,  — 

"  I  wondered  how  long  you  meant  to  stay  in 
that  damned  place,"  —  one  of  the  freedoms  he 
had  assumed  as  a  husband  being  the  use  of  his 
strongest  epithets.  Gwendolen,  turning  to  see 
the  rest  of  the  party  approach,  said,  — 

"  It  was  certainly  rather  too  warm  in  one's 
wraps." 

They  walked  on  the  gravel  across  a  green 
court,  where  the  snow  still  lay  in  islets  on  the 
grass,  and  in  masses  on  the  boughs  of  the  great 
cedar  and  the  crenelated  coping  of  the  stone 
walls,  and  then  into  a  larger  court,  where  there 
was  another  cedar,  to  find  the  beautiful  choir 
long  ago  turned  into  stables,  in  the  first  instance 
perhaps  after  an  impromptu  fashion  by  troopers, 
who  had  a  pious  satisfaction  in  insulting  the 
priests  of  Baal  and  the  images  of  Ashtoreth, 
the  queen  of  heaven.  The  exterior  —  its  west 
end,  save  for  the  stable  door,  walled  in  with 
brick  and  covered  with  ivy  —  was  much  defaced, 
maimed  of  finial  and  gurgoyle,  the  friable  lime- 
stone broken  and  fretted,  and  lending  its  soft 
gray  to  a  powdery  dark  lichen;  the  long  win- 
dows, too,  were  filled  in  with  brick  as  far  as  the 
springing  of  the  arches,  the  broad  clerestory 
windows  with  wire  or  ventilating  blinds.  With 


MORDECAI 


207 


the  low  wintry  afternoon  sun  upon  it,  sending 
shadows  from  the  cedar  boughs,  and  hghting 
up  the  touches  of  snow  remaining  on  every 
ledge,  it  had  still  a  scarcely  disturbed  aspect  of 
antique  solemnity,  which  gave  the  scene  in  the 
interior  rather  a  startling  effect;  though,  eccle- 
siastical or  reverential  indignation  apart,  the 
eyes  could  hardly  help  dwelling  with  pleasure 
on  its  piquant  picturesqueness.  Each  finely 
arched  chapel  was  turned  into  a  stall,  where 
in  the  dusty  glazing  of  the  windows  there  still 
gleamed  patches  of  crimson,  orange,  blue,  and 
palest  violet;  for  the  rest,  the  choir  had  been 
gutted,  the  floor  levelled,  paved,  and  drained 
according  to  the  most  approved  fashion,  and  a 
line  of  loose-boxes  erected  in  the  middle :  a  soft 
light  fell  from  the  upper  windows  on  sleek  brown 
or  gray  flanks  and  haunches;  on  mild  equine 
faces  looking  out  with  active  nostrils  over  the 
varnished  brown  boarding;  on  the  hay  hanging 
from  racks  where  the  saints  once  looked  down 
from  the  altar-pieces,  and  on  the  pale  golden 
straw  scattered  or  in  heaps;  on  a  little  white- 
and-liver-coloured  spaniel  making  his  bed  on 
the  back  of  an  elderly  hackney,  and  on  four 
ancient  angels,  still  showing  signs  of  devotion 
like  mutilated  martyrs,  —  while  over  all,  the 
grand  pointed  roof,  untouched  by  reforming 
wash,  showed  its  lines  and  colours  mysteriously 
through  veiling  shadow  and  cobweb,  and  a 
hoof  now  and  then  striking  against  the  boards 
seemed  to  fill  the  vault  with  thunder,  while  out- 
side there  was  the  answering  bay  of  the  blood- 
hounds. 

"Oh,  this  is  glorious!"  Gwendolen  burst 


208  DANIEL  DERONDA 


forth,  in  for  get  fulness  of  everything  but  the  im- 
mediate impression:  there  had  been  a  httle  in- 
toxication for  her  in  the  grand  spaces  of  courts 
and  building,  and  the  fact  of  her  being  an  im- 
portant person  among  them.  "  This  glorious! 
Only  I  wish  there  were  a  horse  in  every  one  of 
the  boxes.  I  would  ten  times  rather  have  these 
stables  than  those  at  Diplow." 

But  she  had  no  sooner  said  this  than  some 
consciousness  arrested  her,  and  involuntarily  she 
turned  her  eyes  towards  Deronda,  who  oddly 
enough  had  taken  off  his  felt  hat  and  stood  hold- 
ing it  before  him  as  if  they  had  entered  a  room 
or  an  actual  church.  He,  like  others,  happened 
to  be  looking  at  her,  and  their  eyes  met  —  to 
her  intense  vexation,  for  it  seemed  to  her  that 
by  looking  at  him  she  had  betrayed  the  rever- 
ence of  her  thoughts,  and  she  felt  herself  blush- 
ing: she  exaggerated  the  impression  that  even 
Sir  Hugo  as  well  as  Deronda  would  have  of  her 
bad  taste  in  referring  to  the  possession  of  any- 
thing at  the  Abbey:  as  for  Deronda,  she  had 
probably  made  him  despise  her.  Her  annoy- 
ance at  what  she  imagined  to  be  the  obviousness 
of  her  confusion  robbed  her  of  her  usual  facility 
in  carrying  it  off  by  playful  speech,  and  turning 
up  her  face  to  look  at  the  roof,  she  wheeled  away 
in  that  attitude.  If  any  had  noticed  her  blush 
as  significant,  they  had  certainly  not  interpreted 
it  by  the  secret  windings  and  recesses  of  her  feel- 
ing. A  blush  is  no  language:  only  a  dubious 
flag-signal,  which  may  mean  either  of  two  con- 
tradictories. Deronda  alone  had  a  faint  guess 
at , some  part  of  her  feeling;  but  while  he  was 
observing  her  he  was  himself  under  observation. 


MORDECAI 


209 


"Do  you  take  off  your  hat  to  the  horses?" 
said  Grandcourt,  with  a  sHght  sneer. 

"  Why  not?  "  said  Deronda,  covering  himself. 
He  had  really  taken  off  the  hat  automatically, 
and  if  he  had  been  an  ugly  man  might  doubtless 
have  done  so  with  impunity:  ugliness  having 
naturally  the  air  of  involuntary  exposure,  and 
beauty,  of  display. 

Gwendolen's  confusion  was  soon  merged  in  ^ 
the  survey  of  the  horses,  which  Grandcourt  po- 
htely  abstained  from  appraising,  languidly  as- 
senting to  Sir  Hugo's  alternate  depreciation 
and  eulogy  of  the  same  animal,  as  one  that  he 
should  not  have  bought  when  he  was  younger 
and  piqued  himself  on  his  horses,  but  yet  one 
that  had  better  qualities  than  many  more  expen- 
sive brutes. 

"  The  fact  is,  stables  dive  deeper  and  deeper 
into  the  pocket  nowadays,  and  I  am  very  glad 
to  have  got  rid  of  that  demangeaisonj'  said  Sir 
Hugo,  as  they  were  coming  out. 

"  What  is  a  man  to  do,  though?  "  said  Grand- 
court.  "  He  must  ride;  I  don't  see  what  else 
there  is  to  do.  And  I  don't  call  it  riding  to  sit 
astride  a  set  of  brutes  with  every  deformity 
under  the  sun." 

This  delicate  diplomatic  way  of  characterizing 
Sir  Hugo's  stud  did  not  require  direct  notice; 
and  the  baronet,  feeling  that  the  conversation 
had  worn  rather  thin,  said  to  the  party  generally, 
"  Now  we  are  going  to  see  the  cloister  —  the 
finest  bit  of  all  —  in  perfect  preservation:  the 
monks  might  have  been  walking  there  yes- 
terday." 

But  Gwendolen  had  lingered  behind  to  look 

VOL.  xm  — 14 


210 


DANIEL  DERONDA 


at  the  kennelled  blood-hounds,  perhaps  because 
she  felt  a  little  dispirited;  and  Grandcourt 
waited  for  her. 

"  You  had  better  take  my  arm,"  he  said,  in 
his  low  tone  of  command;  and  she  took  it. 

"  It 's  a  great  bore  being  dragged  about  in 
this  way,  and  no  cigar,"  said  Grandcourt. 

"  I  thought  you  would  like  it." 

"Like  it!  —  one  eternal  chatter.  And  en- 
couraging those  ugly  girls  —  inviting  one  to 
meet  such  monsters.  How  that  fat  Deronda  can 
bear  looking  at  her  —  " 

"  Why  do  you  call  him  a  fat?  Do  you  object 
to  him  so  much?  " 

"Object?  no.  What  do  I  care  about  his 
being  a  fat?  It 's  of  no  consequence  to  me.  I  '11 
invite  him  to  Diplow  again  if  you  like." 

"  I  don't  think  he  would  come.  He  is  too 
clever  and  learned  to  care  about  us  J'  said  Gwen- 
dolen, thinking  it  useful  for  her  husband  to  be 
told  (privately)  that  it  was  possible  for  him  to 
be  looked  down  upon. 

"I  never  saw  that  make  much  difference  in 
a  man.  Either  he  is  a  gentleman  or  he  is  not," 
said  Grandcourt. 

That  a  new  husband  and  wife  should  snatch 
a  moment's  tete-a-tete  was  what  could  be  under- 
stood and  indulged;  and  the  rest  of  the  party 
left  them  in  the  rear  till,  re-entering  the  garden, 
they  all  paused  in  that  cloistered  court  where, 
among  the  falling  rose-petals  thirteen  years  be- 
fore, we  saw  a  boy  becoming  acquainted  with 
his  first  sorrow.  This  cloister  was  built  of  harder 
stone  than  the  church,  and  had  been  in  greater 
safety  from  the  wearing  weather.   It  was  a  rare 


MORDECAI 


211 


example  of  a  northern  cloister  with  arched  and 
pillared  openings  not  intended  for  glazing,  and 
the  delicately  wrought  foliage  of.  the  capitals 
seemed  still  to  carry  the  very  touches  of  the 
chisel.  Gwendolen  had  dropped  her  husband's 
arm  and  joined  the  other  ladies,  to  whom  De- 
ronda  was  noticing  the  delicate  sense  which  had 
combined  freedom  with  accuracy  in  the  imita- 
tion of  natural  forms. 

"  I  wonder  whether  one  oftener  learns  to  love 
real  objects  through  their  representations,  or 
the  representations  through  the  real  objects," 
he  said,  after  pointing  out  a  lovely  capital  made 
by  the  curled  leaves  of  greens,  showing  their 
reticulated  under-side  with  the  firm  gradual 
swell  of  its  central  rib.  "  When  I  was  a  little 
fellow  these  capitals  taught  me  to  observe,  and 
delight  in,  the  structure  of  leaves." 

"  I  suppose  you  can  see  every  line  of  them 
with  your  eyes  shut,"  said  Juliet  Fenn. 

"  Yes.  I  was  always  repeating  them,  because 
for  a  good  many  years  this  court  stood  for  me 
as  my  only  image  of  a  convent,  and  whenever 
I  read  of  monks  and  monasteries,  this  was  my 
scenery  for  them." 

"  You  must  love  this  place  very  much,"  said 
Miss  Fenn,  innocently,  not  thinking  of  inherit- 
ance. "  So  many  homes  are  like  twenty  others. 
But  this  is  unique,  and  you  seem  to  know  every 
cranny  of  it.  I  dare  say  you  could  never  love 
another  home  so  well." 

Oh,  I  carry  it  with  me,"  said  Deronda, 
quietly,  being  used  to  all  possible  thoughts  of 
this  kind.  "  To  most  men  their  early  home  is 
no  more  than  a  memory  of  their  early  years, 


212  DANIEL  DERONDA 


and  I 'm  not  sure  but  they  have  the  best  of  it. 
The  image  is  never  marred.  There 's  no  dis- 
appointment in  memory,  and  one's  exaggera- 
tions are  always  on  the  good  side." 

Gwendolen  felt  sure  that  he  spoke  in  that  way 
out  of  delicacy  to  her  and  Grandcourt  —  be- 
cause he  knew  they  must  hear  him ;  and  that  he 
probably  thought  of  her  as  a  selfish  creature 
who  only  cared  about  possessing  things  in  her 
own  person.  But  whatever  he  might  say,  it 
must  have  been  a  secret  hardship  to  him  that 
any  circumstances' of  his  birth  had  shut  him  out 
from  the  inheritance  of  his  father's  position; 
and  if  he  supposed  that  she  exulted  in  her  hus- 
band's taking  it,  what  could  he  feel  for  her  but 
scornful  pity?  Indeed  it  seemed  clear  to  her 
that  he  was  avoiding  her,  and  preferred  talking 
to  others  —  which  nevertheless  was  not  kind  in 
him. 

With  these  thoughts  in  her  mind  she  was  pre- 
vented by  a  mixture  of  pride  and  timidity  from 
addressing  him  again,  and  when  they  were  look- 
ing at  the  rows  of  quaint  portraits  in  the  gallery 
above  the  cloisters,  she  kept  up  her  air  of  in- 
terest and  made  her  vivacious  remarks  without 
any  direct  appeal  to  Deronda.  But  at  the  end 
she  was  very  weary  of  her  assumed  spirits,  and 
as  Grandcourt  turned  into  the  billiard-room, 
she  went  to  the  pretty  boudoir  which  had  been 
assigned  to  her,  and  shut  herself  up  to  look 
melancholy  at  her  ease.  No  chemical  process 
shows  a  more  wonderful  activity  than  the  trans- 
forming influence  of  the  thoughts  we  imagine 
to  be  going  on  in  another.  Changes  in  theory, 
religion,  admirations,  may  begin  with  a  sus- 


MORDECAI 


213 


picion  of  dissent  or  disapproval,  even  when  the 
grounds  of  disapproval  are  but  matter  of  search- 
ing conjecture. 

Poor  Gwendolen  was  conscious  of  an  un- 
easy, transforming  process,  —  all  the  old  nature 
shaken  to  its  depths,  its  hopes  spoiled,  its  pleas- 
ures perturbed,  but  still  showing  wholeness  and 
strength  in  the  will  to  reassert  itself.  After 
every  new  shock  of  humiliation  she  tried  to  ad- 
just herself  and  seize  her  old  supports,  —  proud 
concealment,  trust  in  new  excitements  that 
would  make  life  go  by  without  much  thinking; 
trust  in  some  deed  of  reparation  to  nullify  her 
self -blame  and  shield  her  from  a  vague,  ever- 
visiting  dread  of  some  horrible  calamity;  trust 
in  the  hardening  effect  of  use  and  wont  that 
would  make  her  indifferent  to  her  miseries. 

Yes,  —  miseries.  This  beautiful,  healthy 
young  creature,  with  her  two-and-twenty  years 
and  her  gratified  ambition,  no  longer  felt  in- 
clined to  kiss  her  fortunate  image  in  the  glass; 
she  looked  at  it  with  wonder  that  she  could  be  so 
miserable.  One  belief  which  had  accompanied 
her  through  her  unmarried  life  as  a  self -cajoling 
superstition,  encouraged  by  the  subordination 
of  every  one  about  her  —  the  belief  in  her  own 
power  of  dominating  —  was  utterly  gone.  Al- 
ready, in  seven  short  weeks,  which  seemed  half 
her  life,  her  husband  had  gained  a  mastery 
which  she  could  no  more  resist  than  she  could 
have  resisted  the  benumbing  effect  from  the 
touch  of  a  torpedo.  Gwendolen's  will  had 
seemed  imperious  in  its  small  girlish  sway;  but 
it  was  the  will  of  a  creature  with  a  large  dis- 
course of  imaginative  fears:   a  shadow  would 


214  DANIEL  DERONDA 


have  been  enough  to  relax  its  hold.  And  she 
had  found  a  will  like  that  of  a  crab  or  a  boa- 
constrictor  which  goes  on  pinching  or  crushing 
without  alarm  at  thunder.  Not  that  Grandcourt 
was  without  calculation  of  the  intangible  effects 
which  were  the  chief  means  of  mastery;  indeed 
he  had  a  surprising  acuteness  in  detecting  that 
situation  of  feeling  in  Gwendolen  which  made 
her  proud  and  rebellious  spirit  dumb  and  help- 
less before  him. 

She  had  burnt  Lydia  Glasher's  letter  with  an 
instantaneous  terror  lest  other  eyes  should  see 
it,  and  had  tenaciously  concealed  from  Grand- 
court  that  there  was  any  other  cause  of  her  vio- 
lent hysterics  than  the  excitement  and  fatigue 
of  the  day :  she  had  been  urged  into  an  implied 
falsehood.  "  Don't  ask  me  —  it  was  my  feeling 
about  everything  —  it  was  the  sudden  change 
from  home."  The  words  of  that  letter  kept 
repeating  themselves,  and  hung  on  her  con- 
sciousness with  the  weight  of  a  prophetic  doom. 
"  I  am  the  grave  in  which  your  chance  of  happi- 
ness is  buried  as  well  as  mine.  You  had  your 
warning.  You  have  chosen  to  injure  me  and  my  - 
children.  He  had  meant  to  marry  me.  He 
would  have  married  me  at  last,  if  you  had  not 
broken  your  word.  You  will  have  your  punish- 
ment. I  desire  it  with  all  my  soul.  Will  you 
give  him  this  letter  to  set  him  against  me  and 
ruin  us  more,  —  me  and  my  children  ?  Shall  you 
like  to  stand  before  your  husband  with  these 
diamonds  on  you,  and  these  words  of  mine  in 
his  thoughts  and  yours  ?  Will  he  think  you  have 
any  right  to  complain  when  he  has  made  you 
miserable?   You  took  him  with  your  eyes  open. 


MORDECAI 


215 


The  willing  wrong  you  have  done  me  will  be 
your  curse." 

The  words  had  nestled  their  venomous  life 
within  her,  and  stirred  continually  the  vision 
of  the  scene  at  the  Whispering  Stones.  That 
scene  ^as  now  like  an  accusing  apparition:  she 
dreaded  that  Grandcourt  should  know  of  it,  — 
so  far  out  of  her  sight  now  was  that  possibility 
she  had  once  satisfied  herself  with,  of  speaking 
to  him  about  Mrs.  Glasher  and  her  children, 
and  making  them  rich  amends.  Any  endurance 
seemed  easier  than  the  mortal  humiliation  of  con- 
fessing  that  she  knew  all  before  she  married  him, 
and  in  marrying  him  had  broken  her  word.  For 
the  reasons  by  which  she  had  justified  herself 
when  the  marriage  tempted  her,  and  all  her 
easy  arrangement  of  her  future  power  over  her 
husband  to  make  him  do  better  than  he  might 
be  inclined  to  do  were  now  as  futile  as  the  burnt- 
out  lights  which  set  off  a  child's  pageant.  Her 
sense  of  being  blameworthy  was  exaggerated 
by  a  dread  both  definite  and  vague.  The  defi- 
nite dread  was  lest  the  veil  of  secrecy  should  fall 
between  her  and  Grandcourt,  and  give  him  the 
right  to  taunt  her.  With  the  reading  of  that 
letter  had  begun  her  husband's  empire  of  fear. 

And  her  husband  all  the  while  knew  it.  He 
had  not,  indeed,  any  distinct  knowledge  of  her 
broken  promise,  and  would  not  have  rated  highly 
the  effect  of  that  breach  on  her  conscience;  but 
he  was  aware  not  only  of  what  Lush  had  told 
him  about  the  meeting  at  the  Whispering- 
Stones,  but  also  of  Gwendolen's  concealment 
as  to  the  cause  of  her  sudden  illness.  He  felt 
sure  that  Lydia  had  enclosed  something  with 


216  DANIEL  DERONDA 


the  diamonds,  and  that  this  something,  whatever 
it  was,  had  at  once  created  in  Gwendolen  a  new 
repulsion  for  him  and  a  reason  for  not  daring 
to  manifest  it.  He  did  not  greatly  mind,  or  feel 
as  many  men  might  have  felt,  that  his  hopes 
in  marriage  were  blighted:  he  had  wanted  to 
marry  Gwendolen,  and  he  was  not  a  man  to 
repent.  Why  should  a  gentleman  whose  other 
relations  in  life  are  carried  on  without  the  luxury 
of  sympathetic  feeling,  be  supposed  to  require 
that  kind  of  condiment  in  domestic  life?  What 
he  chiefly  felt  was  that  a  change  had  come  over 
the  conditions  of  his  mastery,  which,  far  from 
shaking  it,  might  establish  it  the  more  thor- 
oughly. And  it  was  established.  He  judged 
that  he  had  not  married  a  simpleton  unable  to 
perceive  the  impossibility  of  escape,  or  to  see 
alternative  evils :  he  had  married  a  girl  who  had 
spirit  and  pride  enough  not  to  make  a  fool  of 
herself  by  forfeiting  all  the  advantages  of  a 
position  which  had  attracted  her;  and  if  she 
wanted  pregnant  hints  to  help  her  in  making 
up  her  mind  properly,  he  would  take  care  not  to 
withhold  them. 

Gwendolen,  indeed,  with  all  that  gnawing 
trouble  in  her  consciousness,  had  hardly  for  a 
moment  dropped  the  sense  that  it  was  her  part 
to  bear  herself  with  dignity,  and  appear  what 
is  called  happy.  In  disclosure  of  disappoint- 
ment or  sorrow  she  saw  nothing  but  a  humilia- 
tion which  would  have  been  vinegar  to  her 
wounds.  Whatever  her  husband  might  come  at 
last  to  be  to  her,  she  meant  to  wear  the  yoke  so 
as  not  to  be  pitied.  For  she  did  think  of  the 
coming  years  with  presentiment :  she  was  fright- 


MORDECAI 


217 


ened  at  Grandcourt.  The  poor  thing  had  passed 
from  her  girhsh  sauciness  of  superiority  over 
this  inert  specimen  of  personal  distinction  into 
an  amazed  perception  of  her  former  ignorance 
about  the  possible  mental  attitude  of  a  man 
towards  the  woman  he  sought  in  marriage,  — 
of  her  present  ignorance  as  to  what  their  life 
with  each  other  might  turn  into.  For  novelty 
gives  immeasurableness  to  fear,  and  fills  the 
early  time  of  all  sad  changes  with  phantoms  of 
the  future.  Her  little  coquetries,  voluntary  or 
involuntary,  had  told  on  Grandcourt  during 
courtship,  and  formed  a  medium  of  communica- 
tion between  them,  showing  him  in  the  light  of 
a  creature  such  as  she  could  understand  and 
manage:  but  marriage  had  nullified  all  such 
interchange,  and  Grandcourt  had  become  a 
blank  uncertainty  to  her  in  everything  but  this, 
that  he  would  do  just  what  he  willed,  and  that 
she  had  neither  devices  at  her  command  to  deter- 
mine his  will,  nor  any  rational  means  of  escap- 
ing it. 

What  had  occurred  between  them  about  her 
wearing  the  diamonds  was  typical.  One  even- 
ing, shortly  before  they  came  to  the  Abbey,  they 
were  going  to  dine  at  Brackenshaw  Castle. 
Gwendolen  had  said  to  herself  that  she  would 
never  wear  those  diamonds:  they  had  horrible 
words  clinging  and  crawling  about  them,  as 
from  some  bad  dream,  whose  images  lingered  on 
the  perturbed  sense.  She  came  down  dressed 
in  her  white,  with  only  a  streak  of  gold  and  a 
pendant  of  emeralds,  which  Grandcourt  had 
given  her,  round  her  neck,  and  little  emerald 
stars  in  her  ears. 


218 


DANIEL  DERONDA 


Grandcourt  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire 
and  looked  at  her  as  she  entered. 

"Am  I  altogether  as  you  like?"  she  said, 
speaking  rather  gayly.  She  was  not  without 
enjoyment  in  this  occasion  of  going  to  Bracken- 
shaw  Castle  with  her  new  dignities  upon  her, 
as  men  whose  affairs  are  sadly  involved  will 
enjoy  dining  out  among  persons  likely  to  be 
under  a  pleasant  mistake  about  them. 

"  No,"  said  Grandcourt. 

Gwendolen  felt  suddenly  uncomfortable, 
wondering  what  was  to  come.  She  was  not  un- 
prepared for  some  struggle  about  the  diamonds; 
jbut  suppose  he  were  going  to  say,  in  low  con- 
temptuous tones,  "  You  are  not  in  any  way  what 
I  like."  It  was  very  bad  for  her  to  be  secretly 
hating  him;  but  it  would  be  much  worse  when 
he  gave  the  first  sign  of  hating  her. 

"  Oh,  mercy!  "  she  exclaimed,  the  pause  last- 
ing till  she  could  bear  it  no  longer.  "  How  am  I 
to  alter  myself?  " 

"  Put  on  the  diamonds,"  said  Grandcourt, 
looking  straight  at  her  with  his  narrow  glance. 

Gwendolen  paused  in  her  turn,  afraid  of  show- 
ing any  emotion,  and  feeling  that  nevertheless 
there  was  some  change  in  her  eyes  as  they  met 
his.  But  she  was  obliged  to  answer,  and  said  as 
indifferently  as  she  could,  "  Oh,  please  not.  I 
don't  think  diamonds  suit  me." 

"  What  you  think  has  nothing  to  do  with  it," 
said  Grandcourt,  his  sotto-vbce  imperiousness 
seeming  to  have  an  evening  quietude  and  fin- 
ish, like  his  toilet.  "  I  wish  you  to  wear  the 
diamonds." 

"  Pray  excuse  me;  I  like  these  emeralds,"  said 


MORDECAI 


219 


Gwendolen,  frightened  in  spite  of  her  prepara- 
tion. That  white  hand  of  his  which  was  touching 
his  whisker  was  capable,  she  fancied,  of  clinging 
round  her  neck  and  threatening  to  throttle  her ; 
for  her  fear  of  him,  mingling  with  the  vague 
foreboding  of  some  retributive  calamity  which 
hung  about  her  life,  had  reached  a  superstitious 
point. 

"  Oblige  me  by  telling  me  your  reason  for  not 
wearing  the  diamonds  when  I  desire  it,"  said 
Grandcourt.  His  eyes  were  still  fixed  upon  her, 
and  she  felt  her  own  eyes  narrowing  under  them 
as  if  to  shut  out  an  entering  pain. 

Of  what  use  was  the  rebellion  within  her?  She 
could  say  nothing  that  would  not  hurt  her  worse 
than  submission.  Turning  slowly  and  covering 
herself  again,  she  went  to  her  dressing-room. 
As  she  reached  out  the  diamonds,  it  occurred  to 
her  that  her  unwillingness  to  wear  them  might 
have  already  raised  a  suspicion  in  Grandcourt 
that  she  had  some  knowledge  about  them  which 
he  had  not  given  her.  She  fancied  that  his 
eyes  showed  a  delight  in  torturing  her.  How 
could  she  be  defiant?  She  had  nothing  to  say 
that  would  ;  touch  him,  —  nothing  but  what 
would  give  him  a  more  painful  grasp  on  her 
consciousness. 

"  He  delights  in  making  the  dogs  and  horses 
quail:  that  is  half  his  pleasure  in  calling  them 
his,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  opened  the  jewel- 
case  with  a  shivering  sensation.  "  It  will  come  to 
be  so  with  me ;  and  I  shall  quail.  What  else  is 
there  for  me?  I  will  not  say  to  the  world,  '  Pity 
me.'  " 

She  was  about  to  ring  for  her  maid  when  she 


220  DANIEL  DERONDA 


heard  the  door  open  behind  her.  It  was  Grand- 
court  who  came  in. 

"  You  want  some  one  to  fasten  them,"  he  said, 
coming  towards  her. 

She  did  not  answer,  but  simply  stood  still, 
leaving  him  to  take  out  the  ornaments  and  fasten 
them  as  he  would.  Doubtless  he  had  been  used  to 
fasten  them  on  some  one  else.  With  a  bitter  sort 
of  sarcasm  against  herself,  Gwendolen  thought, 
"  What  a  privilege  this  is,  to  have  robbed  another 
woman  of !  " 

"  What  makes  you  so  cold? "  said  Grand- 
court,  when  he  had  fastened  the  last  earring. 

Pray  put  plenty  of  furs  on.  I  hate  to  see 
a  woman  come  into  a  room  looking  frozen. 
If  you  are  to  appear  as  a  bride  at  all,  appear 
decently." 

This  marital  speech  was  not  exactly  persua- 
sive, but  it  touched  the  quick  of  Gwendolen's 
pride  and  forced  her  to  rally.  The  words  of  the 
bad  dream  crawled  about  the  diamonds  still, 
but  only  for  her:  to  others  they  were  brilliants 
that  suited  her  perfectly,  and  Grandcourt  in- 
wardly observed  that  she  answered  to  the  rein. 

"  Oh,  yes,  mamma,  quite  happy,"  Gwendolen 
had  said  on  her  return  to  Diplow.  "  Not  at  all 
disappointed  in  Ryelands.  It  is  a  much  finer 
place  than  this,  larger  in  every  way.  But  don't 
you  want  some  more  money?  " 

"  Did  you  not  know  that  Mr.  Grandcourt  left 
me  a  letter  on  your  wedding-day?  I  am  to  have 
eight  hundred  a-year.  He  wishes  me  to  keep 
Offendene  for  the  present,  while  you  are  at 
Diplow.  But  if  there  were  some  pretty  cottage 
near  the  park  at  R3"elands,  we  might  live  there 


MORDECAI 


221 


without  much  expense,  and  I  should  have  you 
most  of  the  year,  perhaps." 

"  We  must  leave  that  to  Mr.  Grandcourt, 
mamma." 

"  Oh,  certainly.  It  is  exceedingly  handsome 
of  him  to  say  that  he  will  pay  the  rent  for 
Offendene  till  June.  And  we  can  go  on  very 
well,  —  without  any  man-servant  except  Crane, 
just  for  out  of  doors.  Our  good  Merry  will 
stay  with  us  and  help  me  to  manage  everything. 
It  is  natural  that  Mr.  Grandcourt  should  wish 
me  to  live  in  a  good  style  of  house  in  your 
neighbourhood,  and  I  cannot  decline.  So  he 
said  nothing  about  it  to  you?  " 

"No;  he  wished  me  to  hear  it  from  you,  I 
suppose." 

Gwendolen,  in  fact,  had  been  very  anxious  to 
have  some  definite  knowledge  of  what  would  be 
done  for  her  mother,  but  at  no  moment  since 
her  marriage  had  she  been  able  to  overcome  the 
difficulty  of  mentioning  the  subject  to  Grand- 
court.  Now,  however,  she  had  a  sense  of  obli- 
gation which  would  not  let  her  rest  without  say- 
ing to  him,  "It  is  very  good  of  you  to  provide 
for  mamma.  You  took  a  great  deal  on  your- 
self in  marrying  a  girl  who  had  nothing  but 
-relations  belonging  to  her." 

Grandcourt  was  smoking,  and  only  said  care- 
lessly, "Of  course  I  was  not  going  to  let  her 
live  like  a  gamekeeper's  mother." 

"  At  least  he  is  not  mean  about  money," 
thought  Gwendolen,  "  and  mamma  is  the  better 
off  for  my  marriage." 

She  often  pursued  the  comparison  between 
what  might  have  been,  if  she  had  not  married 


222  DANIEL  DERONDA 


Grandcourt,  and  what  actually  was,  trying  to 
persuade  herself  that  life  generally  was  barren 
of  satisfaction,  and  that  if  she  had  chosen  dif- 
ferently she  might  now  have  been  looking  back 
with  a  regret  as  bitter  as  the  feeling  she 'was 
trying  to  argue  away.  Her  mother's  dulness, 
which  used  to  irritate  her,  she  was  at  present 
inclined  to  explain  as  the  ordinary  result  of 
women's  experience.  True,  she  still  saw  that 
she  would  "  manage  differently^ from  mamma;  " 
but  her  management  now  only  meant  that  she 
would  carry  her  troubles  with  spirit,  and  let 
none  suspect  them.  By  and  by  she  promised 
herself  that  she  should  get  used  to  her  heart- 
sores,  and  find  excitements  that  would  carry 
her  through  life,  as  a  hard  gallop  carried  her 
through  some  of  the  morning  hours.  There  was 
gambling:  she  had  heard  stories  at  Leubronn 
of  fashionable  women  who  gambled  in  all  sorts 
of  ways.  It  seemed  very  fiat  to  her  at  this 
distance;  but  perhaps  if  she  began  to  gamble 
again,  the  passion  might  awake.  Then  there 
was  the  pleasure  of  producing  an  effect  by  her 
appearance  in  society:  what  did  celebrated 
beauties  do  in  town  when  their  husbands  could 
afford  display?  All  men  were  fascinated  by 
them;  they  had  a  perfect  equipage  and  toilet, 
walked  into  public  places,  and  bowed,  and  made 
the  usual  answers,  and  walked  out  again:  per- 
haps they  bought  china,  and  practised  accom- 
plishments. If  she  could  only  feel  a  keen  ap- 
petite for  those  pleasures,  —  could  only  believe 
in  pleasure  as  she  used  to  do!  Accomplish- 
ments had  ceased  to  have  the  exciting  quality 
of  promising  any  pre-eminence  to  her;  and  as 


MORDECAI 


223 


for  fascinated  gentlemen,  —  adorers  who  might 
hover  round  her  with  languishment,  and  diver- 
sify married  life  with  the  romantic  stir  of 
mystery,  passion,  and  danger  which  her  French 
reading  had  given  her  some  girlish  notion  of,  — 
they  presented  themselves  to  her  imagination 
with  the  fatal  circumstance  that,  instead  of  fas- 
cinating her  in  return,  they  were  clad  in  her 
own  weariness  and  disgust.  The  admiring  male, 
rashly  adjusting  the  expression  of  his  features 
and  the  turn  of  his  conversation  to  her  supposed 
tastes,  had  always  been  an  absurd  object  to  her, 
and  at  present  seemed  rather  detestable.  Many 
courses  are  actually  pursued,  —  follies  and  sins 
both  convenient  and  inconvenient,  —  without 
pleasure  or  hope  of  pleasure ;  but  to  solace  our- 
selves with  imagining  any  course  beforehand, 
there  must  be  some  foretaste  of  pleasure  in  the 
shape  of  appetite;  and  Gwendolen's  appetite 
had  sickened.  Let  her  wander  over  the  possi- 
bilities of  her  life  as  she  would,  an  uncertain 
shadow  dogged  her.  Her  confidence  in  herself 
and  her  destiny  had  turned  into  remorse  and 
dread;  she  trusted  neither  herself  nor  her 
future. 

This  hidden  helplessness  gave  fresh  force  to 
the  hold  Deronda  had  from  the  first  taken  on 
her  mind,  as  one  who  had  an  unknown  standard 
by  which  he  judged  her.  Had  he  some  way  of 
looking  at  things  which  might  be  a  new  footing 
for  her,  —  an  inward  safeguard  against  possible 
events  which  she  dreaded  as  stored-up  retribu- 
tion? It  is  one  of  the  secrets  in  that  change 
of  mental  poise  which  has  been  fitly  named  con- 
version, that  to  many  among  us  neither  heaven 


224  DANIEL  DERONDA 


nor  earth  has  any  revelation  till  some  personal- 
ity touches  theirs  with  a  peculiar  influence,  sub- 
duing them  into  receptiveness.  It  had  been 
Gwendolen's  habit  to  think  of  the  persons  around 
her  as  stale  books,  too  familiar  to  be  interest- 
ing. Deronda  had  lit  up  her  attention  with  a 
sense  of  novelty:  not  by  words  only,  but  by 
imagined  facts,  his  influence  had  entered  into 
the  current  of  that  self -suspicion  and  self -blame 
which  awakens  a  new  consciousness. 

"  I  wish  he  could  know  everything  about 
me  without  my  telling  him,"  was  one  of  her 
thoughts,  as  she  sat  leaning  over  the  end  of  a 
couch,  supporting  her  head  with  her  hand,  and 
looking  at  herself  in  a  mirror,  —  not  in  admira- 
tion, but  in  a  sad  kind  of  companionship.  "  I 
wish  he  knew  that  I  am  not  so  contemptible  as 
he  thinks  me,  that  I  am  in  deep  trouble,  and 
want  to  be  something  better  if  I  could."  With- 
out the  aid  of  sacred  ceremony  or  costume,  her 
feelings  had  turned  this  man,  only  a  few  years 
older  than  herself,  into  a  priest;  a  sort  of  trust 
less  rare  than  the  fidelity  that  guards  it.  Young 
reverence  for  one  who  is  also  young  is  the  most 
coercive  of  all :  there  is  the  same  level  of  tempta- 
tion, and  the  higher  motive  is  believed  in  as  a 
fuller  force,  —  not  suspected  to  be  a  mere  resi- 
due from  weary  experience. 

But  the  coercion  is  often  stronger  on  the  one 
who  takes  the  reverence.  Those  who  trust  us 
educate  us.  And  perhaps  in  that  ideal  conse- 
cration of  Gwendolen's,  some  education  was 
being  prepared  for  Deronda. 


\ 


CHAPTER  II 


Rien  ne  pese  tant  qu'un  secret, 

Le  porter  loin  est  difficile  aux  dames-: 

Et  je  S9ais  mesme  sur  ce  fait 

Bon  nombre  d'hommes  qui  sont  fenmaes. 

La  Fontaine. 

MEANWHILE  Deronda  had  been  fas- 
tened and  led  off  by  Mr.  Vandernoodt, 
who  wished  for  a  brisker  walk,  a  cigar, 
and  a  little  gossip.  Since  we  cannot  tell  a  man 
his  own  secrets,  the  restraint  of  being  in  his 
company  often  breeds  a  desire  to  pair  off  in 
conversation  with  some  more  ignorant  person; 
and  Mr.  Vandernoodt  presently  said,  — 

"  What  a  washed-out  piece  of  cambric  Grand- 
court  is!  But  if  he  is  a  favourite  of  yours,  I 
withdraw  the  remark." 

"  Not  the  least  in  the  world,"  said  Deronda. 
"  I  thought  not.    One  wonders  how  he  came 
to  have  a  great  passion  again;   and  he  must 
have  had,  —  to  marry  in  this  waj^  Though 
Lush,  his  old  chum,  hints  that  he  married  this 
girl  out  of  obstinacy.    By  George!   it  was  a 
very  accountable  obstinacy.   A  man  might  make 
up  his  mind  to  marry  her  without  the  stimulus 
of  contradiction.    But  he  must  have  made  him- 
self a  pretty  large  drain  of  money,  eh?  " 
"  I  know  nothing  of  his  affairs." 
"  What !  not  of  the  other  establishment  he 
keeps  up?  " 

"Diplow?  Of  course.  He  took  that  of  Sir 
Hugo.    But  merely  for  the  year." 

VOL.  XIII  —  15 


226  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"No,  no:  notDiplow:  Gadsmere.  Sir  Hugo 
knows,  I  '11  answer  for  it." 

Deronda  said  nothing.  He  really  began  to 
feel  some  curiosity,  but  he  foresaw  that  he  should 
hear  what  Mr.  Vandernoodt  had  to  tell,  without 
the  condescension  of  asking. 

"  Lush  would  not  altogether  own  to  it,  of 
course.  He 's  a  confidant  and  go-between  of 
Grandcourt's.  But  I  have  it  on  the  best  author- 
ity. The  fact  is,  there 's  another  lady  with  four 
children  at  Gadsmere.  She  has  had  the  upper 
hand  of  him  these  ten  years  and  more,  and  by 
what  I  can  understand  has  it  still,  —  left  her 
husband  for  him,  and  used  to  travel  with  him 
everywhere.  Her  husband  's  dead  now:  I  found 
a  fellow  who  was  in  the  same  regiment  with  him, 
and  knew  this  Mrs.  Glasher  before  she  took 
wing.  A  fiery  dark-eyed  woman,  —  a  noted 
beauty  at  that  time,  —  he  thought  she  was  dead. 
They  say  she  has  Grandcourt  under  her  thumb 
still,  and  it 's  a  wonder  he  did  n't  marry  her, 
for  there  's  a  very  fine  boy,  and  I  understand 
Grandcourt  can  do  absolutely  as  he  pleases  with 
the  estates.    Lush  told  me  as  much  as  that." 

"  What  right  had  he  to  marry  this  girl?  " 
said  Deronda,  with  disgust. 

Mr.  Vandernoodt,  adjusting  the  end  of  his 
cigar,  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  put  out  his 
lips. 

''She  can  know  nothing  of  it,"  said  Deronda, 
emphatically.  But  that  positive  statement  was 
immediately  followed  by  an  inward  query,  — 
"  Could  she  have  known  anything  of  it?  " 

"  It 's  rather  a  piquant  picture,"  said  Mr. 
Vandernoodt, — "Grandcourt  between  two  fiery 


MORDECAI  •  227 


women.  For,  depend  upon  it,  this  light-haired 
one  has  plenty  of  devil  in  her.  I  formed  that 
opinion  of  her  at  Leubronn.  It 's  a  sort  of 
Medea  and  Creiisa  business.  Fancy  the  two 
meeting!  Grandcourt  is  a  new  kind  of  Jason: 
I  wonder  what  sort  of  a  part  he  '11  make  of  it. 
It 's  a  dog's  part  at  best.  I  think  I  hear  Ris- 
tori  now,  saying  '  Jasone !  Jasone ! '  These  fine 
women  generally  get  hold  of  a  stick." 

"  Grandcourt  can  bite,  I  fancy,"  said  De- 
ronda.    "  He  is  no  stick." 

"No,  no;  meant  Jason.  I  can't  quite  make 
out  Grandcourt.  But  he 's  a  keen  fellow  enough, 
—  uncommonly  well  built  too.  And  if  he  comes 
into  all  this  property,  the  estates  will  bear  divid- 
ing. This  girl,  whose  friends  had  come  to  beg- 
gary, I  understand,  may  think  herself  lucky  to 
get  him.  I  don't  want  to  be  hard  on  a  man 
because  he  gets  involved  in  an  affair  of  that  sort. 
But  he  might  make  himself  more  agreeable.  I 
was  telling  him  a  capital  story  last  night,  and 
he  got  up  and  walked  away  in  the  middle.  I 
felt  inclined  to  kick  him.  Do  you  suppose  that 
is  inattention  or  insolence,  now?  " 

"  Oh,  a  mixture. .  He  generally  observes  the 
forms;  but  he  doesn't  listen  much,"  said  De- 
ronda.  Then,  after  a  moment's  pause,  he  went 
on,  "  I  should  think  there  must  be  some  exag- 
geration or  inaccuracy  in  what  you  have  heard 
about  this  lady  at  Gadsmere." 

"  Not  a  bit,  depend  upon  it;  it  has  all  lain 
snug  of  late  years.  People  have  forgotten  all 
about  it.  But  there  the  nest  is,  and  the  birds 
are  in  it.  And  I  know  Grandcourt  goes  there. 
I  have  good  evidence  that  he  goes  there.  How- 


228  DANIEL  DERONDA 


ever,  that 's  nobody's  business  but  his  own.  The 
affair  has  sunk  below  the  surface." 

"  I  wonder  you  could  have  learned  so  much 
about  it,"  said  Deronda,  rather  dryly. 

"  Oh,  there  are  plenty  of  people  who  knew 
all  about  it;  but  such  stories  get  packed  away 
like  old  letters.  They  interest  me.  I  like  to 
know  the  manners  of  my  time,  —  contemporary 
gossip,  not  antediluvian.  These  Dryasdust  fel- 
lows get  a  reputation  by  raking  up  some  small 
scandal  about  Semiramis  or  Nitocris,  and  then 
we  have  a  thousand  and  one  poems  written  upon 
it  by  all  the  warblers  big  and  little.  But  I  don't 
care  a  straw  about  the  fauoc  pas  of  the  mummies. 
You  do,  though.  You  are  one  of  the  historical 
men,  —  more  interested  in  a  lady  when  she 's 
got  a  rag  face  and  skeleton  toes  peeping  out. 
Does  that  flatter  your  imagination?  " 

"  Well,  if  she  had  any  woes  in  her  love,  one 
has  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  she 's  well 
out  of  them." 

"  Ah,  you  are  thinking  of  the  Medea,  I  see." 

Deronda  then  chose  to  point  to  some  giant 
oaks  worth  looking  at  in  their  bareness.  He  also 
felt  an  interest  in  this  piece  of  contemporary 
gossip,  but  he  was  satisfied  that  Mr.  Vander- 
noodt  had  no  more  to  tell  about  it. 

Since  the  early  days  when  he  tried  to  construct 
the  hidden  story  of  his  own  birth,  his  mind  had 
perhaps  never  been  so  active  in  weaving  proba- 
bilities about  any  private  affair  as  it  had  now 
begun  to  be  about  Gwendolen's  marriage.  This 
unavowed  relation  of  Grandcourt's,  —  could  she 
have  gained  some  knowledge  of  it,  which  caused 
her  to  shrink  from  the  match,  —  a  shrinking 


MORDECAI  229 


finally  overcome  by  the  urgence  of  poverty  ?  He 
could  recall  almost  every  word  she  had  said  to 
him,  and  in  certain  of  these  words  he  seemed  to 
discern  that  she  was  conscious  of  having  done 
some  wrong,  —  inflicted  some  injury.  His  own 
acute  experience  made  him  alive  to  the  form  of 
injury  which  might  affect  the  unavowed  children 
and  their  mother.  Was  Mrs.  Grandcourt,  under 
all  her  determined  show  of  satisfaction,  gnawed 
by  a  double,  a  treble-headed  grief,  —  self-re- 
proach, disappointment,  jealousy?  He  dwelt 
especially  on  all  the  slight  signs  of  self-reproach : 
he  was  inclined  to  judge  her  tenderly,  to  excuse, 
to  pity.  He  thought  he  had  found  a  key  now  by 
which  to  interpret  her  more  clearly:  what  mag- 
nifying of  her  misery  might  not  a  young  creature 
get  into  who  had  wedded  her  fresh  hopes  to  old 
secrets !  He  thought  he  saw  clearly  enough  now 
why  Sir  Hugo  had  never  dropped  any  hint  of 
this  affair  to  him;  and  immediately  the  image 
of  this  Mrs.  Glasher  became  painfully  associated 
with  his  own  hidden  birth.  Gwendolen  know- 
ing of  that  woman  and  her  children,  marrying 
Grandcourt,  and  showing  herself  contented, 
would  have  been  among  the  most  repulsive  of 
beings  to  him;  but  Gwendolen  tasting  the  bit- 
terness of  remorse  for  having  contributed  to 
their  injury  was  brought  very  near  to  his  fellow- 
feeling.  If  it  were  so,  she  had  got  to  a  common 
plane  of  understanding  with  him  on  some  diffi- 
culties of  life  which  a  woman  is  rarely  able  to 
judge  of  with  any  justice  or  generosity;  for, 
according  to  precedent,  Gwendolen's  view  of  her 
position  might  easily  have  been  no  other  than 
that  her  husband's  marriage  with  her  was  his 


230  DANIEL  DERONDA 

entrance  on  the  path  of  virtue,  while  Mrs. 
Glasher  represented  his  forsaken  sin.  And 
Deronda  had  naturally  some  resentment  on  be- 
half of  the  Hagars  and  Ishmaels. 

Undeniably  Deronda's  growing  solicitude 
about  Gwendolen  depended  chiefly  on  her  pecul- 
iar manner  towards  him ;  and  I  suppose  neither 
man  nor  woman  would  be  the  better  for  an  utter 
insensibility  to  such  appeals.  One  sign  that  his 
interest  in  her  had  changed  its  footing  was  that 
he  dismissed  any  caution  against  her  being  a 
coquette  setting  snares  to  involve  him  in  a  vulgar 
flirtation,  and  determined  that  he  would  not 
again  evade  any  opportunity  of  talking  with  her. 
He  had  shaken  off  Mr.  Vandernoodt,  and  got 
into  a  solitary  corner  in  the  twilight;  but  half 
an  hour  was  long  enough  to  think  of  those  possi- 
bilities in  Gwendolen's  position  and  state  of  mind, 
and  on  forming  the  determination  not  to  avoid 
her,  he  remembered  that  she  was  likely  to  be  at 
tea  with  the  other  ladies  in  the  drawing-room. 
The  conjecture  was  true;  for  Gwendolen,  after 
resolving  not  to  go  down  again  for  the  next  four 
hours,  began  to  feel,  at  the  end  of  one,  that  in 
shutting  herself  up  she  missed  all  chances  of  see- 
ing and  hearing,  and  that  her  visit  would  only 
last  two  days  more.  She  adjusted  herself,  put 
on  her  little  air  of  self-possession,  and  going 
down,  made  herself  resolutely  agreeable.  Only 
ladies  were  assembled,  and  Lady  Pentreath  was 
amusing  them  with  a  description  of  a  drawing- 
room  under  the  Regency,  and  the  figure  that  was 
cut  by  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  1819,  the  year 
she  was  presented  —  when  Deronda  entered. 
Shall  I  be  acceptable?  "  he  said.    "  Perhaps 


MORDECAI 


231 


I  had  better  go  back  and  look  for  the  others.  I 
suppose  they  are  in  the  biUiard-room." 

"No,  no;  stay  where  you  are,"  said  Lady 
Pentreath.  "  They  were  all  getting  tired  of  me ; 
let  us  hear  what  you  have  to  say." 

"  That  is  rather  an  embarrassing  appeal," 
said  Deronda,  drawing  up  a  chair  near  Lady 
Mallinger's  elbow  at  the  tea-table.  "  I  think  I 
had  better  take  the  opportunity  of  mentioning 
our  songstress,"  he  added,  looking  at  Lady 
Mallinger,  —  "  unless  you  have  done  so." 

"  Oh,  the  little  Jewess!  "  said  Lady  Mallinger. 
"  No,  I  have  not  mentioned  her.  It  never  en- 
tered my  head  that  any  one  here  wanted  singing- 
lessons." 

"  All  ladies  know  some  one  else  who  wants 
singing-lessons,"  said  Deronda.  "  I  have  hap- 
pened to  find  an  exquisite  singer;  "  here  he 
turned  to  Lady  Pentreath.  "  She  is  living  with 
some  ladies  who  are  friends  of  mine,  —  the 
mother  and  sisters  of  a  man  who  was  my  chum 
at  Cambridge.  She  was  on  the  stage  at  Vienna ; 
but  she  wants  to  leave  that  life,  and  maintain 
herself  by  teaching." 

"  There  are  swarms  of  those  people,  are  n't 
there?  "  said  the  old  lady.  "  Are  her  lessons  to 
be  very  cheap  or  very  expensive  ?  Those  are  the 
two  baits  I  know  of." 

"  There  is  another  bait  for  those  who  hear 
her,"  said  Deronda.  "  Her  singing  is  something 
quite  exceptional,  I  think.  She  has  had  such 
first-rate  teaching,  —  or  rather  first-rate  instinct 
with  her  teaching,  —  that  you  might  imagine  her 
singing  all  came  by  nature." 

"Why  did  she  leave  the  stage,  then?"  said 


232  DANIEL  DERONDA 


Lady  Pentreath.  "  I 'm  too  old  to  believe  in 
first-rate  people  giving  up  first-rate  chances." 

"  Her  voice  was  too  weak.  It  is  a  delicious 
voice  for  a  room.  You  who  put  up  with  my 
singing  of  Schubert  would  be  enchanted  with 
hers,"  said  Deronda,  looking  at  Mrs.  Raymond. 
"  And  I  imagine  she  would  not  object  to  sing  at 
private  parties  or  concerts.  Her  voice  is  quite 
equal  to  that." 

"  I  am  to  have  her  in  my  drawing-room  when 
we  go  up  to  town,"  said  Lady  Mallinger.  "  You 
shall  hear  her  then.  I  have  not  heard  her  myself 
yet;  but  I  trust  Daniel's  recommendation.  I 
mean  my  girls  to  have  lessons  of  her." 

"  Is  it  a  charitable  affair? "  said  Lady  Pent- 
reath.  "  I  can't  bear  charitable  music." 

Lady  Mallinger,  who  was  rather  helpless  in 
conversation,  and  felt  herself  under  an  engage- 
ment not  to  tell  anything  of  Mirah's  story,  had 
an  embarrassed  smile  on  her  face,  and  glanced 
at  Deronda. 

"It  is  a  charity  to  those  who  want  to  have  a 
good  model  of  feminine  singing,"  said  Deronda. 
"  I  think  everybody  who  has  ears  would  benefit 
by  a  little  improvement  on  the  ordinary  style. 
If  you  heard  Miss  Lapidoth,"  —  here  he  looked 
at  Gwendolen,  —  "  perhaps  you  would  revoke 
your  resolution  to  give  up  singing." 

"  I  should  rather  think  my  resolution  would 
be  confirmed,"  said  Gwendolen.  "  I  don't  feel 
able  to  follow  your  advice  of  enjoying  my  own 
middlingness." 

"  For  my  part,"  said  Deronda,  "  people  who 
do  anything  finely  always  inspirit  me  to  try.  I 
don't  mean  that  they  make  me  believe  I  can  do 


MORDECAI 


233 


it  as  well.  But  they  make  the  thing,  whatever 
it  may  be,  seem  worthy  to  be  done.  I  can  bear 
to  think  my  own  music  not  good  for  much,  but 
the  world  would  be  more  dismal  if  I  thought 
music  itself  not  good  for  much.  Excellence  en- 
courages one  about  life  generally;  it  shows  the 
spiritual  wealth  of  the  world." 

"But  then  if  we  can't  imitate  it?  —  it  only 
makes  our  own  life  seem  the  tamer,"  said  Gwen- 
dolen, in  a  mood  to  resent  encouragement 
founded  on  her  own  insignificance. 

"  That  depends  on  the  point  of  view,  I  think," 
said  Deronda.  "  We  should  have  a  poor  life  of 
it  if  we  were  reduced  for  all  our  pleasure  to  our 
own  performances.  A  little  private  imitation 
of  what  is  good  is  a  sort  of  private  devotion  to  it, 
and  most  of  us  ought  to  practise  art  only  in  the 
light  of  private  study,  —  preparation  to  under- 
stand and  enjoy  what  the  few  can  do  for  us.  I 
think  Miss  Lapidoth  is  one  of  the  few." 

"  She  must  be  a  very  happy  person,  don't  you 
think?  "  said  Gwendolen,  with  a  touch  of  sar- 
casm, and  a  turn  of  her  neck  towards  Mrs. 
Raymond. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  the  independent 
lady;  "  I  must  hear  more  of  her  before  I  said 
that." 

"  It  may  have  been  a  bitter  disappointment  to 
her  that  her  voice  failed  her  for  the  stage,"  said 
Juliet  Fenn,  sympathetically. 

"  I  suppose  she 's  past  her  best,  though,"  said 
the  deep  voice  of  Lady  Pentreath. 

"  On  the  contrary,  she  has  not  reached  it,"  said 
Deronda.    "  She  is  barely  twenty." 

"  And  very  pretty,"  interposed  Lady  Mal- 


/ 


234  DANIEL  DERONDA 


linger,  with  an  amiable  wish  to  help  Deronda. 
"  And  she  has  very  good  manners.  I 'm  sorry 
she  is  a  bigoted  Jewess;  I  should  not  like  it  for 
anything  else,  but  it  does  n't  matter  in  singing." 

"  Well,  since  her  voice  is  too  weak  for  her  to 
scream  much,  I  '11  tell  Lady  Clementina  to  set 
her  on  my  nine  granddaughters,"  said  Lady 
Pentreath;  "  and  I  hope  she  '11  convince  eight  of 
them  that  they  have  not  voice  enough  t6  sing 
anywhere  but  at  church.  My  notion  is,  that 
many  of  our  girls  nowadays  want  lessons  not  to 
sing." 

"  I  have  had  my  lessons  in  that,"  said  Gwen- 
dolen, looking  at  Deronda.  "  You  see  Lady 
Pentreath  is  on  my  side." 

While  she  was  speaking.  Sir  Hugo  entered 
with  some  of  the  other  gentlemen,  including 
Grandcourt,  and  standing  against  the  group  at 
the  low  tea-table  said,  — 

"  What  imposition  is  Deronda  putting  on  you 
ladies,  —  slipping  in  among  you  by  himself?  " 

"  Wanting  to  pass  off  an  obscurity  on  us  as 
better  than  any  celebrity,"  said  Lady  Pent- 
reath, —  "a  pretty  singing  Jewess  who  is  to 
astonish  these  young  people.  You  and  I,  who 
heard  Catalani  in  her  prime,  are  not  so  easily 
astonished." 

Sir  Hugo  listened  with  his  good-humoured 
smile  as  he  took  a  cup  of  tea  from  his  wife,  and 
then  said,  "  Well,  you  know,  a  Liberal  is  bound 
to  think  that  there  have  been  singers  since  Cata- 
lani's  time." 

"  Ah,  you  are  younger  than  I  am.  I  dare  say 
you  are  one  of  the  men  who  ran  after  Alcharisi. 
But  she  married  off  and  left  you  all  in  the  lurch." 


MORDECAI 


235 


"  Yes,  yes ;  it 's  rather  too  bad  when  these  great 
singers  marry  themselves  into  silence  before  they 
have  a  crack  in  their  voices.  And  the  husband 
is  a  public  robber.  I  remember  Leroux  saying, 
'  A  man  might  as  well  take  down  a  fine  peal  of 
church  bells  and  carry  them  off  to  the  steppes,'  " 
said  Sir  Hugo,  setting  down  his  cup  and  turning 
away,  while  Deronda,  who  had  moved  from  his 
place  to  make  room  for  others,  and  felt  that  he 
was  not  in  request,  sat  down  a  little  apart.  Pres- 
ently he  became  aware  that,  in  the  general  dis- 
persion of  the  group,  Gwendolen  had  extricated 
herself  from  the  attentions  of  JNIr.  Vandernoodt 
and  had  walked  to  the  piano,  where  she  stood 
apparently  examining  the  music  which  lay  on 
the  desk.  Will  any  one  be  surprised  at  De- 
ronda's  concluding  that  she  wished  him  to  join 
her?  Perhaps  she  wanted  to  make  amends  for 
the  unpleasant  tone  of  resistance  with  which  she 
had  met  his  recommendation  of  Mirah,  for  he 
had  noticed  that  her  first  impulse  often  was  to 
say  what  she  afterwards  wished  to  retract.  He 
went  to  her  side  and  said,  — 

"  Are  you  relenting  about  the  music  and  look- 
ing for  something  to  play  or  sing?  " 

"  I  am  not  looking  for  anything,  but  I  am 
relenting,"  said  Gwendolen,  speaking  in  a  sub- 
missive tone. 

May  I  know  the  reason?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  hear  Miss  Lapidoth  and  have 
lessons  from  her,  since  you  admire  her  so  much, 
—  that  is,  of  course,  when  we  go  to  town.  I 
mean  lessons  in  rejoicing  at  her  excellence  and 
my  own  deficiency,"  said  Gwendolen,  turning 
on  him  a  sweet  open  smile. 


236  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  I  shall  be  really  glad  for  you  to  see  and 
hear  her,"  said  Deronda,  returning  the  smile  in 
kind. 

"  Is  she  as  perfect  in  everything  else  as  in  her 
music?  " 

"  I  can't  vouch  for  that  exactly.  I  have  not 
seen  enough  of  her.  But  I  have  seen  nothing  in 
her  that  I  could  wish  to  be  different.  She  has 
had  an  unhappy  life.  Her  troubles  began  in 
early  childhood,  and  she  has  grown  up  among 
very  painful  surroundings.  But  I  think  you  will 
say  that  no  advantages  could  have  given  her 
more  grace  and  truer  refinement." 

"  I  wonder  what  sort  of  troubles  hers  were?  " 

"  I  have  not  any  very  precise  knowledge. 
But  I  know  that  she  was  on  the  brink  of  drown- 
ing herself  in  despair." 

"  And  what  hindered  her?  "  said  Gwendolen, 
quickly,  looking  at  Deronda. 

"  Some  ray  or  other  came,  —  which  made  her 
feel  that  she  ought  to  live,  —  that  it  was  good 
to  live,"  he  answered  quietly.  "  She  is  full  of 
piety,  and  seems  capable  of  submitting  to  any- 
thing when  it  takes  the  form  of  duty." 

"  Those  people  are  not  to  be  pitied,"  said 
Gwendolen,  impatiently.  "  I  have  no  sympathy 
with  women  who  are  always  doing  right.  I 
don't  believe  in  their  great  sufferings."  Her 
fingers  moved  quickly  among  the  edges  of  the 
music. 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Deronda,  "  that  the  con- 
sciousness of  having  done  wrong  is  something 
deeper,  more  bitter.  I  suppose  we  faulty  crea- 
tures can  never  feel  so  much  for  the  irreproach- 
able as  for  those  who  are  bruised  in  the  struggle 


MORDECAI 


237 


with  their  own  faults.  It  is  a  very  ancient  story, 
that  of  the  lost  sheep,  —  but  it  comes  up  afresh 
every  day." 

"  That  is  a  way  of  speaking,  —  it  is  not 
acted  on,  it  is  not  real,"  said  Gwendolen,  bitterly.. 
"  You  admire  Miss  Lapidoth  because  you  think 
her  blameless,  perfect.  And  you  know  you 
would  despise  a  woman  who  had  done  something 
you  thought  very  wrong." 

"  That  would  depend  entirely  on  her  own  view 
of  what  she  had  done,"  said  Deronda. 

"  You  would  be  satisfied  if  she  were  very 
wretched,  I  suppose? "  said  Gwendolen,  im- 
petuously. 

"  No,  not  satisfied,  —  full  of  sorrow  for  her. 
It  was  not  a  mere  way  of  speaking.  I  did  not 
mean  to  say  that  the  finer  nature  is  not  more 
adorable;  I  meant  that  those  who  would  be 
comparatively  uninteresting  beforehand  may 
become  worthier  of  sympathy  when  they  do 
something  that  awakens  in  them  a  keen  remorse. 
Lives  are  enlarged  in  different  ways.  I  dare 
say  some  would  never  get  their  eyes  opened  if 
it  were  not  for  a  violent  shock  from  the  conse- 
quences of  their  own  actions.  And  when  they 
are  suffering  in  that  way  one  must  care  for  them 
more  than  for  the  comfortably  self-satisfied." 
Deronda  forgot  everything  but  his  vision  of 
what  Gwendolen's  experience  had  probably 
been,  and  urged  by  compassion  let  his  eyes  and 
voice  express  as  much  interest  as  they  would. 

Gwendolen  had  slipped  on  to  the  music-stool, 
and  looked  up  at  him  with  pain  in  her  long  eyes, 
like  a  wounded  animal  asking  help. 

"  Are  you  persuading  Mrs.  Grandcourt  to 


238  DANIEL  DERONDA 


play  to  us,  Dan?  "  said  Sir  Hugo,  coming  up 
and  putting  his  hand  on  Deronda's  shoulder 
with  a  gentle  admonitory  pinch. 

"  I  cannot  persuade  myself,"  said  Gwendolen, 
rising. 

Others  had  followed  Sir  Hugo's  lead,  and 
there  was  an  end  of  any  liability  to  confidences 
for  that  day.  But  the  next  was  New  Year's 
Eve;  and  a  grand  dance,  to  which  the  chief 
tenants  were  invited,  was  to  be  held  in  the  pic- 
ture-gallery above  the  cloister,  —  the  sort  of 
entertainment  in  which  numbers  and  general 
movement  may  create  privacy.  When  Gwen- 
dolen was  dressing,  she  longed,  in  remembrance 
of  Leubronn,  to  put  on  the  old  turquoise  neck- 
lace for  her  sole  ornament;  but  she  dared  not 
offend  her  husband,  by  appearing  in  that  shabby 
way  on  an  occasion  when  he  would  demand  her 
utmost  splendour.  Determined  to  wear  the 
memorial  necklace  somehow,  she  wound  it  thrice 
round  her  wrist  and  made  a  bracelet  of  it,  — 
having  gone  to  her  room  to  put  it  on  just  before 
the  time  of  entering  the  ball-room. 

It  was  always  a  beautiful  scene,  this  dance  on 
New  Year's  Eve,  which  had  been  kept  up  by 
family  tradition  as  nearly  in  the  old  fashion  as 
inexorable  change  would  allow.  Red  carpet 
was  laid  down  for  the  occasion;  hot-house  plants 
and  evergreens  were  arranged  in  bowers  at  the 
extremities  and  in  every  recess  of  the  gallery; 
and  the  old  portraits  stretching  back  through 
generations  even  to  the  pre-portraying  period, 
made  a  piquant  line  of  spectators.  Some  neigh- 
bouring gentry,  major  and  minor,  were  invited; 
and  it  was  certainly  an  occasion  when  a  pro- 


MORDECAI 


239 


spective  master  and  mistress  of  Abbot's  and 
King's  Topping  might  see  their  future  glory 
in  an  agreeable  light,  as  a  picturesque  provincial 
supremacy  with  a  rent-roll  personified  by  the 
most  prosperous-looking  tenants.  Sir  Hugo 
expected  Grandcourt  to  feel  flattered  by  being 
asked  to  the  Abbey  at  a  time  which  included  this 
festival  in  honour  of  the  family  estate;  but  he 
also  hoped  that  his  own  hale  appearance  might 
impress  his  successor  with  the  probable  length 
of  time  that  would,  elapse  before  the  succession 
came,  and  with  the  wisdom  of  preferring  a  good 
actual  sum  to  a  minor  property  that  must 
be  waited  for.  All  present,  down  to  the  least 
important  farmer's  daughter,  knew  that  they 
were  to  see  "  young  Grandcourt,"  Sir  Hugo's 
nephew,  the  presumptive  heir  and  future  bar- 
onet, now  visiting  the  Abbey  with  his  bride  after 
an  absence  of  many  years ;  any  coolness  between 
uncle  and  nephew  having,  it  was  understood, 
given  way  to  a  friendly  warmth.  The  bride 
opening  the  ball  with  Sir  Hugo  was  necessarily 
the  cynosure  of  all  eyes;  and  less  than  a  year 
before,  if  some  magic  mirror  could  have  shown 
Gwendolen  her  actual  position,  she  would  have 
imagined  herself  moving  in  it  with  a  glow  of 
triumphant  pleasure,  conscious  that  she  held  in 
her  hands  a  life  full  of  favourable  chances  which 
her  cleverness  and  spirit  would  enable  her  to 
make  the  best  of.  And  now  she  was  wondering 
that  she  could  get  so  little  joy  out  of  the  exalta- 
tion to  which  she  had  been  suddenly  lifted,  away 
from  the  distasteful  petty  empire  of  her  girl- 
hood with  its  irksome  lack  of  distinction  and 
superfluity  of  sisters.   She  would  have  been  glad 


240  DANIEL  DERONDA 


to  be  even  unreasonably  elated,  and  to  forget 
everything  but  the  flattery  of  the  moment;  but 
she  was  like  one  courting  sleep,  in  whom 
thoughts  insist  like  wilful  tormentors. 

Wondering  in  this  way  at  her  own  dulness, 
and  all  the  while  longing  for  an  excitement  that 
would  deaden  importunate  aches,  she  was  pass- 
ing through  files  of  admiring  beholders  in  the 
country-dance  with  which  it  was  traditional  to 
open  the  ball,  and  was  being  generally  regarded 
by  her  own  sex  as  an  enviable  woman.  It  was 
remarked  that  she  carried  herself  with  a  wonder- 
ful air,  considering  that  she  had  been  nobody 
in  particular,  and  without  a  farthing  to  her  for- 
tune. If  she  had  been  a  duke's  daughter  or  one 
of  the  royal  princesses,  she  could  not  have  taken 
the  honours  of  the  evening  more  as  a  matter  of 
course.  Poor  Gwendolen !  It  would  by  and  by 
become  a  sort  of  skill  in  which  she  was  auto- 
matically practised,  to  bear  this  last  great  gam- 
bling loss  with  an  air  of  perfect  self-possession. 

The  next  couple  that  passed  were  also  worth 
looking  at.  Lady  Pentreath  had  said,  "  I  shall 
stand  up  for  one  dance,  but  I  shall  choose  my 
partner.  Mr.  Deronda,  you  are  the  youngest 
man;  I  mean  to  dance  with  you.  Nobody  is 
old  enough  to  make  a  good  pair  with  me.  I 
must  have  a  contrast."  And  the  contrast  cer- 
tainly set  off  the  old  lady  to  the  utmost.  She 
was  one  of  those  women  who  are  never  handsome 
till  they  are  old,  and  she  had  had  the  wisdom  to 
embrace  the  beauty  of  age  as  early  as  possible. 
What  might  have  seemed  harshness  in  her  fea- 
tures when  she  was  young,  had  turned  now  into 
a  satisfactory  strength  of  form  and  expression 


MORDECAI 


241 


which  defied  wrinkles,  and  was  set  off  by  a 
crown  of  white  hair;  her  well-built  figure  was 
well  covered  with  black  drapery,  her  ears  and 
neck  comfortably  caressed  with  lace,  showing 
none  of  those  withered  spaces  which  one  would 
think  it  a  pitiable  condition  of  poverty  to  expose. 
She  glided  along  gracefully  enough,  her  dark 
eyes  still  with  a  mischievous  smile  in  them  as 
she  observed  the  company.  Her  partner's  young 
richness  of  tint  against  the  flattened  hues  and 
rougher  forms  of  her  aged  head  had  an  effect 
something  like  that  of  a  fine  flower  against  a 
lichenous  branch.  Perhaps  the  tenants  hardly 
appreciated  this  pair.  Lady  Pentreath  was 
nothing  more  than  a  straight,  active  old  lady; 
Mr.  Deronda  was  a  familiar  figure  regarded 
with  friendliness;  but  if  he  had  been  the  heir, 
it  would  have  been  regretted  that  his  face  was 
not  as  unmistakably  English  as  Sir  Hugo's. 

Grandcourt's  appearance  when  he  came  up 
with  Lady  Mallinger  was  not  impeached  with 
foreignness:  still  the  satisfaction  in  it  was  not 
complete.  It  would  have  been  matter  of  con- 
gratulation if  one  who  had  the  luck  to  inherit 
two  old  family  estates  had  had  more  hair,  a 
fresher  colour,  and  a  look  of  greater  animation; 
but  that  fine  families  dwindled  off  into  females, 
and  estates  ran  together  into  the  single  heirship 
of  a  mealy-complexioned  male,  was  a  tendency 
in  things  which  seemed  to  be  accounted  for  by 
a  citation  of  other  instances.  It  was  agreed  that 
Mr.  Grandcourt  could  never  be  taken  for  any- 
thing but  what  he  was,  —  a  born  gentleman ; 
and  that,  in  fact,  he  looked  like  an  heir.  Per- 
haps the  person  least  complacently  disposed 
VOL.  xm  — 16 


242  DANIEL  DERONDA 


towards  him  at  that  moment  was  Lady  Mal- 
hnger,  to  whom  going  in  procession  up  this 
country-dance  with  Grandcourt  was  a  blazon- 
ment  of -herself  as  the  infelicitous  wife  who  had 
produced  nothing  but  daughters,  little  better 
than  no  children,  poor  dear  things,  except  for 
her  own  fondness  and  for  Sir  Hugo's  wonder- 
ful goodness  to  them.  But  such  inward  discom- 
fort could  not  prevent  the  gentle  lady  from 
looking  fair  and  stout  to  admiration,  or  her  full 
blue  eyes  from  glancing  mildly  at  her  neigh- 
bours. All  the  mothers  and  fathers  held  it  a 
thousand  pities  that  she  had  not  had  a  fine 
boy,  or  even  several,  —  which  might  have  been 
expected,  to  look  at  her  when  she  was  first 
married. 

The  gallery  included  only  three  sides  of  the 
quadrangle,  the  fourth  being  shut  off  as  a  lobby 
or  corridor;  one  side  was  used  for  dancing,  and 
the  opposite  side  for  the  supper-table,  while  the 
intermediate  part  was  less  brilliantly  lit,  and 
fitted  with  comfortable  seats.  Later  in  the  even- 
ing Gwendolen  was  in  one  of  these  seats,  and 
Grandcourt  was  standing  near  her.  They  were 
not  talking  to  each  other :  she  was  leaning  back- 
ward in  her  chair,  and  he  against  the  wall;  and 
Deronda,  happening  to  observe  this,  went  up  to 
ask  her  if  she  had  resolved  not  to  dance  any 
more.  Having  himself  been  doing  hard  duty 
in  this  way  among  the  guests,  he  thought  he 
had  earned  the  right  to  sink  for  a  little  while 
into  the  background,  and  he  had  spoken  little 
to  Gwendolen  since  their  conversation  at  the 
piano  the  day  before.  Grandcourt's  presence 
would  only  make  it  the  easier  to  show  that  pleas- 


MORDECAI 


243 


ure  in  talking  to  her  even  about  trivialities  which 
would  be  a  sign  of  friendliness;  and  he  fancied 
that  her  face  looked  blank.  A  smile  beamed  over 
it  as  she  saw  him  coming,  and  she  raised  herself 
from  her  leaning  posture.  Grandcourt  had  been 
grumbling  at  the  ennui  of  staying  so  long  in 
this  stupid  dance,  and  proposing  that  they  should 
vanish :  she  had  resisted  on  the  ground  of  polite- 
ness, —  not  without  being  a  little  frightened  at 
the  probability  that  he  was  silently  angry  with 
her.  She  had  her  reason  for  staying,  though 
she  had  begun  to  despair  of  the  opportunity  for 
the  sake  of  which  she  had  put  the  old  necldace 
on  her  wrist.  But  now  at  last  Deronda  had 
come. 

"  Yes;  I  shall  not  dance  any  more.  Are  you 
not  glad?  "  she  said,  with  some  gayety.  "  You 
might  have  felt  obliged  humbly  to  offer  yourself 
as  a  partner,  and  I  feel  sure  you  have  danced 
more  than  you  like  already." 

"  I  will  not  deny  that,"  said  Deronda,  "  since 
you  have  danced  as  much  as  you  like." 

"  But  will  you  take  trouble  for  me  in  an- 
other way,  and  fetch  me  a  glass  of  that  fresh 
water?  " 

It  was  but  a  few  steps  that  Deronda  had  to 
go  for  the  water.  Gwendolen  was  wrapped  in 
the  lightest,  softest  of  white  woollen  burnouses, 
under  which  her  hands  were  hidden.  While  he 
was  gone  she  had  drawn  off  her  glove,  which 
was  finished  with  a  lace  ruffle,  and  when  she  put 
up  her  hand  to  take  the  glass  and  lifted  it  to 
her  mouth,  the  necklace-bracelet,  which  in  its 
triple  winding  adapted  itself  clumsily  to  her 
wrist,  was  necessarily  conspicuous.  Grandcourt 


244  DANIEL  DERONDA 


saw  it,  and  saw  that  it  was  attracting  Deronda's 
notice. 

"  What  is  that  hideous  thing  you  have  got  on 
your  wrist?  "  said  the  husband. 

"  That?  "  said  Gwendolen,  composedly,  point- 
ing to  the  turquoises,  while  she  still  held  the 
glass;  "it  is  an  old  necklace  that  I  like  to  wear. 
I  lost  it  once,  and  some  one  found  it  for  me." 

With  that  she  gave  the  glass  again  to  De- 
ronda,  who  immediately  carried  it  away,  and 
on  returning  said,  in  order  to  banish  any  con- 
sciousness about  the  necklace,  — 

"  It  is  worth  while  for  you  to  go  and  look  out 
at  one  of  the  windows  on  that  side.  You  can 
see  the  finest  possible  moonlight  on  the  stone 
pillars  and  carving,  and  shadow^s  waving  across 
it  in  the  wind." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  it.  Will  you  go?  "  said 
Gwendolen,  looking  up  at  her  husband. 

He  cast  his  eyes  do^Ti  at  her,  and  saying, 
"  No,  Deronda  will  take  you,"  slowly  moved 
from  his  leaning  attitude,  and  slowly  walked 
away. 

Gwendolen's  face  for  a  moment  showed  a 
fleeting  vexation:  she  resented  this  show  of  in- 
difference towards  her.  Deronda  felt  annoyed, 
chiefly  for  her  sake ;  and  with  a  quick  sense  that 
it  would  relieve  her  most  to  behave  as  if  nothing 
peculiar  had  occurred,  he  said,  "  Will  you  take 
my  arm  and  go,  while  only  servants  are  there?  " 
He  thought  that  he  understood  well  her  action 
in  drawing  his  attention  to  the  necklace:  she 
wished  him  to  infer  that  she  had  submitted  her 
mind  to  rebuke,  —  her  speech  and  manner  had 
from  the  first  fluctuated  towards  that  submis- 


MORDECAI 


245 


sion,  —  and  that  she  felt  no  hngering  resent- 
ment. Her  evident  confidence  in  his  interpreta- 
tion of  her  appealed  to  him  as  a  peculiar  claim. 

When  they  were  walking  together,  Gwendo- 
len felt  as  if  the  annoyance  which  had  just  hap- 
pened had  removed  another  film  of  reserve  from 
between  them,  and  she  had  more  right  than  be- 
fore to  be  as  open  as  she  wished.  She  did  not 
speak,  being  filled  with  the  sense  of  silent  con- 
fidence, until  they  were  in  front  of  the  window 
looking  out  on  the  moonlit  court.  A  sort  of 
bower  had  been  made  round  the  window,  turn- 
ing it  into  a  recess.  Quitting  his  arm,  she  folded 
her  hands  in  her  burnous,  and  pressed  her  brow 
against  the  glass.  He  moved  slightly  away, 
and  held  the  lapels  of  his  coat  with  his  thumbs 
under  the  collar  as  his  manner  was:  he  had  a 
wonderful  power  of  standing  perfect^  still,  and 
in  that  position  reminded  one  sometimes  of 
Dante's  spiriti  magni  con  occhi  tardi  e  gravi. 
(Doubtless  some  of  these  danced  in  their  youth, 
doubted  of  their  own  vocation,  and  found  their 
own  times  too  modern.)  He  abstained  from  re- 
marking on  the  scene  before  them,  fearing  that 
any  indifferent  words  might  jar  on  her;  already 
the  calm  light  and  shadow,  the  ancient  steadfast 
forms,  had  aloofness  enough  from  those  inward 
troubles  which  he  felt  sure  were  agitating  her. 
And  he  judged  aright:  she  would  have  been 
impatient  of  polite  conversation.  The  incidents 
of  the  last  minute  or  two  had  receded  behind 
former  thoughts  which  she  had  imagined  her- 
self uttering  to  Deronda,  and  which  now  urged 
themselves  to  her  lips.  In  a  subdued  voice,  she 
said,  — 


246  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  Suppose  I  had  gambled  again,  and  lost  the 
necklace  again,  what  should  you  have  thought 
of  me?  " 

"  Worse  than  I  do  now." 

"  Then  you  are  mistaken  about  me.  You 
wanted  me  not  to  do  that,  —  not  to  make  my 
gain  out  of  another's  loss  in  that  way,  —  and  I 
have  done  a  great  deal  worse." 

"  I  can  imagine  temptations,"  said  Deronda. 
"  Perhaps  I  am  able  to  understand  what  you 
mean.  At  least  I  understand  self-reproach."  In 
spite  of  preparation  he  was  almost  alarmed  at 
Gwendolen's  precipitancy  of  confidence  towards 
him,  in  contrast  with  her  habitual  resolute 
concealment. 

"  What  should  you  do  if  you  were  like  me,  — 
feeling  that  you  were  wrong  and  miserable,  and 
dreading  everything  to  come?  "  It  seemed  that 
she  was  hurrying  to  make  the  utmost  use  of  this 
opportunity  to  speak  as  she  would. 

"  That  is  not  to  be  amended  by  doing  one 
thing  only,  but  many,"  said  Deronda,  decisively. 

"What?"  said  Gwendolen,  hastily,  moving 
her  brow  from  the  glass  and  looking  at  him. 

He  looked  full  at  her  in  return,  with  what 
she  thought  was  severity.  He  felt  that  it  was 
not  a  moment  in  which  he  must  let  himself  be 
tender,  and  flinch  from  implying  a  hard  opinion. 

"  I  mean  there  are  many  thoughts  and  habits 
that  may  help  us  to  bear  inevitable  sorrow. 
Multitudes  have  to  bear  it." 

She  turned  her  brow  to  the  window  again, 
and  said  impatiently:  "  You  must  tell  me,  then, 
what  to  think  and  what  to  do;  else  why  did 
you  not  let  me  go  on  doing  as  I  liked  and  not 


MORDECAI 


247 


minding?  If  I  had  gone  on  gambling  I  might 
have  won  again,  arid  I  might  have  got  not  to 
care  for  anything  else.  You  would  not  let  me 
do  that.  Why  should  n't  I  do  as  I  like,  and  not 
mind?  Other  people  do."  Poor  Gwendolen's 
speech  expressed  nothing  very  clearly  except 
her  irritation. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  would  ever  get  not  to 
mind,"  said  Deronda,  with  deep-toned  decision. 
"  If  it  were  true  that  baseness  and  cruelty  made 
an  escape  from  pain,  what  difference  would  that 
make  to  people  who  can't  be  quite  base  or  cruel? 
Idiots  escape  some  pain;  but  you  can't  be  an 
idiot.  Some  may  do  wrong  to  another  without 
remorse;  but  suppose  one  does  feel  remorse?  I 
believe  you  could  never  lead  an  injurious  life 
—  all  reckless  lives  are  injurious,  pestilential  — 
without  feeling  remorse."  Deronda's  uncon- 
scious fervour  had  gathered  as  he  went  on:  he 
was  uttering  thoughts  which  he  had  used  for 
himself  in  moments  of  painful  meditation. 

"  Then  tell  me  what  better  I  can  do,"  said 
Gwendolen,  insistently. 

"  Many  things.  Look  on  other  lives  besides 
your  own.  See  what  their  troubles  are,  and 
how  they  are  borne.  Try  to  care  about  some- 
thing in  this  vast  world  besides  the  gratification 
of  small  selfish  desires.  Try  to  care  for  what 
is  best  in  thought  and  action,  —  something  that 
is  good  apart  from  the  accidents  of  your  own 
lot." 

For  an  instant  or  two  Gwendolen  w^as  mute. 
Then,  again  moving  her  brow  from  the  glass, 
she  said,  — 

"  You  mean  that  I  am  selfish  and  ignorant." 


248  DANIEL  DERONDA 


He  met  her  fixed  look  in  silence  before  he 
answered  firmly,  — 

"  You  will  not  go  on  being  selfish  and 
ignorant." 

She  did  not  turn  away  her  glance  or  let  her 
eyelids  fall,  but  a  change  came  over  her  face,  — 
that  subtle  change  in  nerve  and  muscle  which 
will  sometirnes  give  a  childlike  expression  even  to 
the  elderly :  it  is  the  subsidence  of  self-assertion. 

"  Shall  I  lead  you  back? "  said  Deronda, 
gently,  turning  and  offering  her  his  arm  again. 
She  took  it  silently,  and  in  that  way  they  came 
in  sight  of  Grandcourt,  who  was  walking  slowly 
near  their  former  place.  Gwendolen  went  up 
to  him  and  said,  "  I  am  ready  to  go  now.  Mr, 
Deronda  will  excuse  us  to  Lady  Mallinger." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Deronda.  "  Lord  and  Lady 
Pentreath  disappeared  some  time  ago." 

Grandcourt  gave  his  arm  in  silent  compli- 
ance, nodding  over  his  shoulder  to  Deronda, 
and  Gwendolen  too  only  half  turned  to  bow 
and  say,  "  Thanks."  The  husband  and  wife  left 
the  gallery  and  paced  the  corridors  in  silence. 
When  the  door  had  closed  on  them  in  the 
boudoir,  Grandcourt  threw  himself  into  a  chair, 
and  said,  with  undertoned  peremptoriness,  "  Sit 
down."  She,  already  in  the  expectation  of  some- 
thing unpleasant,  had  thrown  off  her  burnous 
with  nervous  unconsciousness,  and  immediately 
obeyed.  Turning  his  eyes  towards  her,  he 
began,  — 

"  Oblige  me  in  future  by  not  showing  whims 
like  a  mad  woman  in  a  play." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Gwendolen. 
"  I  suppose  there  is  some  understanding  be- 


MORDECAI 


249 


tween  you  and  Deronda  about  that  thing  you 
have  on  your  wrist.  If  you  have  anything  to 
say  to  him,  say  it;  but  don't  carry  on  a  tele- 
graphing which  other  people  are  supposed  not 
to  see.   It 's  damnably  vulgar." 

"  You  can  know  all  about  the  necklace,"  said 
Gwendolen,  her  angry  pride  resisting  the  night- 
mare of  fear. 

"  I  don't  want  to  know.  Keep  to  yourself 
whatever  you  like."  Grandcourt  paused  between 
each  sentence,  and  in  each  his  speech  seemed 
to  become  more  preternaturally  distinct  in  its 
inward  tones.  "  What  I  care  to  know,  I  shall 
know  without  your  telling  me.  Only  you  will 
please  to  behave  as  becomes  my  wife,  and  not 
make  a  spectacle  of  yourself." 

"Do  you  object  to  my  talking  to  Mr. 
Deronda?  " 

"  I  don't  care  two  straws  about  Deronda,  or 
any  other  conceited  hanger-on.  You  may  talk 
to  him  as  much  as  you  like.  He  is  not  going  to 
take  my  place.  You  are  my  wife.  And  you 
will  either  fill  your  place  properly  —  to  the 
world  and  to  me  —  or  you  will  go  to  the  devil." 

"  I  never  intended  anything  but  to  fill  my 
place  properly,"  said  Gwendolen,  with  bitterest 
mortification  in  her  soul. 

"  You  put  that  thing  on  your  wrist,  and  hid 
it  from  me  till  you  wanted  him  to  see  it.  Only 
fools  go  into  that  deaf  and  dumb  talk,  and  think 
they  're  secret.  You  will  understand  that  you 
are  not  to  compromise  yourself.  Behave  with 
dignity.    That 's  all  I  have  to  say." 

With  that  last  word  Grandcourt  rose,  turned 
his  back  to  the  fire  and  looked  down  on  her. 


250  DANIEL  DERONDA 


She  was  mute.  There  was  no  reproach  that  she 
dared  to  fling  at  him  in  return  for  these  insult- 
ing admonitions,  and  the  very  reason  she  felt 
them  to  be  insulting  was  that  their  purport  went 
with  the  most  absolute  dictate  of  her  pride. 
What  she  would  least  like  to  incur  was  the  mak- 
ing a  fool  of  herself  and  being  compromised.  It 
was  futile  and  irrelevant  to  try  and  explain  that 
Deronda  too  had  only  been  a  monitor,  —  the 
strongest  of  all  monitors.  Grandcourt  was  con- 
temptuous, not  jealous;  contemptuously  certain 
of  all  the  subjection  he  cared  for.  Why  could 
she  not  rebel,  and  defy  him?  She  longed  to  do 
it.  But  she  might  as  well  have  tried  to  defy 
the  texture  of  her  nerves  and  the  palpitation  of 
her  heart.  Her  husband  had  a  ghostly  army  at 
his  back,  that  could  close  round  her  wherever 
she  might  turn.  She  sat  in  her  splendid  attire, 
like  a  white  image  of  helplessness,  and  he  seemed 
to  gratify  himself  with  looking  at  her.  She 
could  not  even  make  a  passionate  exclamation, 
or  throw  up  her  arms,  as  she  would  have  done 
in  her  maiden  days.  The  sense  of  his  scorn 
kept  her  still. 

"  Shall  I  ring?  "  he  said,  after  what  seemed 
to  her  a  long  while.  She  moved  her  head  in  as- 
sent, and  after  ringing  he  went  to  his  dressing- 
room. 

Certain  words  were  gnawing  within  her. 
"  The  wrong  you  have  done  me  will  be  your 
own  curse."  As  he  closed  the  door,  the  bitter 
tears  rose,  and  the  gnawing  words  provoked  an 
answer:  "  Why  did  you  put  your  fangs  into  me 
and  not  into  him?  "  It  was  uttered  in  a  whisper, 
as  the  tears  came  up  silently.   But  immediately 


MORDECAI 


251 


she  pressed  her  handkerchief  against  her  eyes, 
and  checked  her  tendency  to  sob. 

The  next  day,  recovered  from  the  shuddering 
fit  of  this  evening  scene,  she  determined  to  use 
the  charter  which  Grandcourt  had  scornfully 
given  her,  and  to  talk  as  much  as  she  liked  with 
Deronda;  but  no  opportunities  occurred,  and 
any  little  devices  she  could  imagine  for  creat- 
ing them  were  rejected  by  her  pride,  which  was 
now  doubly  active.  Not  towards  Deronda  him- 
self, —  she  was  curiously  free  from  alarm  lest 
he  should  think  her  openness  wanting  in  dignity : 
it  was  part  of  his  power  over  her  that  she  be- 
lieved him  free  from  all  misunderstanding  as  to 
the  way  in  which  she  appealed  to  him ;  or  rather, 
that  he  should  misunderstand  her  had  never  en- 
tered into  her  mind.  But  the  last  morning  came, 
and  still  she  had  never  been  able  to  take  up  the 
dropped  thread  of  their  talk,  and  she  was  with- 
out devices.  She  and  Grandcourt  were  to  leave 
at  three  o'clock.  It  was  too  irritating  that  after 
a  walk  in  the  grounds  had  been  planned  in 
Deronda's  hearing,  he  did  not  present  himself 
to  join  in  it.  Grandcourt  was  gone  with  Sir 
Hugo  to  King's  Topping,  to  see  the  old  manor- 
house;  others  of  the  gentlemen  were  shooting; 
she  was  condemned  to  go  and  see  the  decoy  and 
the  water-fowl,  and  everything  else  that  she 
least  wanted  to  see,  with  the  ladies,  with  old 
Lord  Pentreath  and  his  anecdotes,  with  Mr. 
Vandernoodt  and  his  admiring  manners.  The 
irritation  became  too  strong  for  her:  without 
premeditation,  she  took  advantage  of  the  wind- 
ing road  to  linger  a  little  out  of  sight,  and  then 
set  off  back  to  the  house,  almost  running  when 


252  DANIEL  DERONDA 


she  was  safe  from  observation.  She  entered  by 
a  side  door,  and  the  library  was  on  her  left  hand : 
Deronda,  she  knew,  was  often  there ;  why  might 
she  not  turn  in  there  as  well  as  into  any  other 
room  in  the  house?  She  had  been  taken  there 
expressly  to  see  the  illuminated  family  tree,  and 
other  remarkable  things,  —  what  more  natural 
than  that  she  should  like  to  look  in  again?  The 
thing  most  to  be  feared  was  that  the  room  w^ould 
be  empty  of  Deronda,  for  the  door  was  ajar. 
She  pushed  it  gently,  and  looked  round  it.  He 
was  there,  writing  busily  at  a  distant  table,  with 
his  back  vto wards  the  door  (in  fact.  Sir  Hugo 
had  asked  him  to  answer  some  constituents' 
letters  which  had  become  pressing).  An  enor- 
mous log-fire,  with  the  scent  of  russia  from  the 
books,  made  the  great  room  as  warmly  odorous 
as  a  private  chapel  in  which  the  censers  have 
been  swinging.  It  seemed  too  daring  to  go  in, 
—  too  rude  to  speak  and  interrupt  him ;  yet  she 
went  in  on  the  noiseless  carpet,  and  stood  still 
for  two  or  three  minutes,  till  Deronda,  having 
finished  a  letter,  pushed  it  aside  for  signature, 
and  threw  himself  back  to  consider  whether  there 
were  anything  else  for  him  to  do,  or  whether  he 
could  walk  out  for  the  chance  of  meeting  the 
party  which  included  Gwendolen,  when  he  heard 
her  voice  saying,  "  Mr.  Deronda." 

It  was  certainly  startling.  He  rose  hastily, 
turned  round,  and  pushed  away  his  chair  with 
a  strong  expression  of  surprise. 

"  Am  I  wrong  to  come  in?  "  said  Gwendolen. 

"  I  thought  you  were  far  on  your  walk,"  said 
Deronda. 

"  I  turned  back,"  said  Gwendolen. 


MORDECAI 


253 


"Do  you  not  intend  to  go  out  again?  I  could 
join  you  now,  if  you  would  allow  me." 

"  No;  I  want  to  say  something,  and  I  can't 
stay  long,"  said  Gwendolen,  speaking  quickly 
in  a  subdued  tone,  while  she  w^alked  forward  and 
rested  her  arms  and  muff  on  the  back  of  the  chair 
he  had  pushed  away  from  him.  "  I  want  to  tell 
you  that  it  is  really  so,  —  I  can't  help  feeling 
remorse  for  having  injured  others.  That  was 
what  I  meant  when  I  said  that  I  had  done  w^orse 
than  gamble  again  and  pawn  the  necklace  again, 

—  something  more  injurious,  as  you  called  it. 
And  I  can't  alter  it.  I  am  punished,  but  I  can't 
alter  it.  You  said  I  could  do  many  things.  Tell 
me  again.  What  should  you  do  —  what  should 
you  feel,  if  you  were  in  my  place?  " 

The  hurried  directness  with  which  she  spoke 

—  the  absence  of  all  her  little  airs,  as  if  she  were 
only  concerned  to  use  the  time  in  getting  an 
answer  that  would  guide  her,  made  her  appeal 
unspeakably  touching. 

Deronda  said,  "  I  should  feel  something  of 
what  you  feel,  —  deep  sorrow." 

"  But  what  would  you  try  to  do?  "  said  Gwen- 
dolen, with  urgent  quickness. 

"  Order  my  life  so  as  to  make  any  possible 
amends,  and  keep  away  from  doing  any  sort  of 
injury  again,"  said  Deronda,  catching  her  sense 
that  the  time  for  speech  was  brief. 

"  But  I  can't,  —  I  can't;  I  must  go  on,"  said 
Gwendolen,  in  a  passionate  loud  whisper.  "  I 
have  thrust  out  others,  —  I  have  made  my  gain 
out  of  their  loss,  —  tried  to  make  it,  —  tried. 
And  I  must  go  on.    I  can't  alter  it." 

It  was  impossible  to  answer  this  instantane- 


254  DANIEL  DERONDA 


ously.  Her  words  had  confirmed  his  conjecture, 
and  the  situation  of  all  concerned  rose  in  swift 
images  before  him.  His  feeling  for  those  who 
had  been  "  thrust  out  "  sanctioned  her  remorse; 
he  could  not  try  to  nullify  it,  yet  his  heart  was 
full  of  pity  for  her.  But  as  soon  as  he  could 
he  answered,  taking  up  her  last  words,  — 

"  That  is  the  bitterest  of  all,  —  to  wear  the 
yoke  of  our  own  wrong-doing.  But  if  you  sub- 
mitted to  that,  as  men  submit  to  maiming  or  a 
lifelong  incurable  disease?  —  and  make  the  un- 
alterable wrong  a  reason  for  more  effort  towards 
a  good  that  may  do  something  to  counterbalance 
the  evil?  One  who  has  committed  irremediable 
errors  may  be  scourged  by  that  consciousness 
into  a  higher  course  than  is  common.  There  are 
many  examples.  Feeling^what  it  is  to  have 
spoiled  one  life  may  well  make  us  long  to  save 
other  lives  from  being  spoiled." 

"  But  you  have  not  wronged  any  one,  or 
spoiled  their  lives,"  said  Gwendolen,  hastily. 
"It  is  only  others  who  have  wronged  you/' 

Deronda  coloured  slightly,  but  said  immedi- 
ately, "  I  suppose  our  keen  feeling  for  ourselves 
might  end  in  giving  us  a  keen  feeling  for  others, 
if,  when  we  are  suffering  acutely,  we  were  to 
consider  that  others  go  through  the  same  sharp 
experience.  That  is  a  sort  of  remorse  before 
commission.    Can't  you  understand  that?  " 

"  I  think  I  do,  —  now,"  said  Gwendolen. 
"  But  you  were  right,  —  I  am  selfish.  I  have 
never  thought  much  of  any  one's  feelings,  ex- 
cept my  mother's.  I  have  not  been  fond  of 
people.  —  But  what  can  I  do?"  she  went  on, 
more  quickly.  "  I  must  get  up  in  the  morning 


MORDECAI 


255 


and  do  what  every  one  else  does.  It  is  all  like 
a  dance  set  beforehand.  I  seem  to  see  all  that 
can  be,  —  and  I  am  tired  and  sick  of  it.  And 
the  world  is  all  confusion  to  me,"  —  she  made  a 
gesture  of  disgust.  "  You  say  I  am  ignorant. 
But  what  is  the  good  of  trying  to  know  more, 
unless  life  were  worth  more?  " 

"  This  good,"  said  Deronda,  promptly,  with 
a  touch  of  indignant  severity,  which  he  was  in- 
clined to  encourage  as  his  own  safeguard:  "life 
would  be  worth  more  to  you;  some  real  knowl- 
edge would  give  you  an  interest  in  the  world 
beyond  the  small  drama  of  personal  desires.  It 
is  the  curse  of  your  life,  —  forgive  me,  —  of  so 
many  lives,  that  all  passion  is  spent  in  that  nar- 
row round,  for  want  of  ideas  and  sympathies  to 
make  a  larger  home  for  it.  Is  there  any  single 
occupation  of  mind  that  you  care  about  with  pas- 
sionate delight  or  even  independent  interest?  " 

Deronda  paused;  but  Gwendolen,  looking 
startled  and  thrilled  as  by  an  electric  shock,  said 
nothing,  and  he  went  on  more  insistently,  — 

"  I  take  what  you  said  of  music  for  a  small 
example,  —  it  answers  for  all  larger  things, — 
you  will  not  cultivate  it  for  the  sake  of  a  pri- 
vate joy  in  it.  What  sort  of  earth  or  heaven 
would  hold  any  spiritual  wealth  in  it  for  souls 
pauperized  by  inaction?  If  one  firmament  has 
no  stimulus  for  our  attention  and  awe,  I  don't 
see  how  four  would  have  it.  We  should  stamp 
every  possible  world  with  the  flatness  of  our  own 
insanity,  —  which  is  necessarily  impious,  without 
faith  or  fellowship.  The  refuge  you  are  needing 
from  personal  trouble  is  the  higher,  the  religious 
life,  which  holds  an  enthusiasm  for  something 


256  DANIEL  DERONDA 


more  than  our  own  appetites  and  vanities.  The 
few  may  find  themselves  in  it  simply  by  an  ele- 
vation of  feeling;  but  for  us  who  have  to  strug- 
gle for  our  wisdom,  the  higher  life  must  be  a 
region  in  which  the  affections  are  clad  with 
knowledge." 

The  half -indignant  remonstrance  that  vi- 
brated in  Deronda's  voice  came,  as  often  hap- 
pens, from  the  habit  of  inward  argument  with 
himself  rather  than  from  severity  towards  Gwen- 
dolen ;  but  it  had  a  more  beneficent  effect  on  her 
than  any  soothings.  Nothing  is  feebler  than 
the  indolent  rebellion  of  complaint;  and  to  be 
roused  into  self -judgment  is  comparative  activ- 
ity. For  the  moment  she  felt  like  a  shaken  child, 
shaken  out  of  its  wailings  into  awe,  and  she 
said  humbly,  — 

"  I  will  try.   I  will  think." 

They  both  stood  silent  for  a  minute,  as  if 
some  third  presence  had  arrested  them,  —  for 
Deronda,  too,  was  under  that  sense  of  pressure 
which  is  apt  to  come  when  our  own  winged 
words  seem  to  be  hovering  around  us,  —  till 
Gwendolen  began  again,  — 

"  You  said  affection  was  the  best  thing,  and 
I  have  hardly  any,  —  none  about  me.  If  I 
could,  I  would  have  mamma;  but  that  is  impos- 
sible. Things  have  changed  to  me  so,  —  in  such 
a  short  time.  What  I  used  not  to  like,  I  long 
for  now.  I  think  I  am  almost  getting  fond  of 
the  old  things  now  they  are  gone."  Her  lip 
trembled. 

"  Take  the  present  suffering  as  a  painful  let- 
ting in  of  light,"  said  Deronda,  more  gently. 
"  You  are  conscious  of  more  beyond  the  round 


MORDECAI 


257 


of  your  own  inclinations,  —  you  know  more  of 
the  way  in  which  your  hfe  presses  on  others,  and 
their  Ufe  on  yours.  I  don't  think  you  could 
have  escaped  the  painful  process  in  some  form 
or  other." 

"  But  it  is  a  very  cruel  form,"  said  Gwendolen, 
beating  her  foot  on  the  ground  with  returning 
agitation.  "  I  am  frightened  at  everything.  I 
am  frightened  at  myself.  When  my  blood  is 
fired  I  can  do  daring  things,  —  take  any  leap ; 
but  that  makes  me  frightened  at  myself."  She 
was  looking  at  nothing  outside  her ;  but  her  eyes 
were  directed  toward  the  window,  away  from 
Deronda,  who  with  quick  comprehension  said,  — 

"  Turn  your  fear  into  a  safeguard.  Keep 
your  dread  fixed  on  the  idea  of  increasing  that 
remorse  which  is  so  bitter  to  you.  Fixed  medi- 
tation may  do  a  great  deal  towards  defining  our 
longing  or  dread.  We  are  not  always  in  a  state 
of  strong  emotion,  and  when  we  are  calm  we  can 
use  our  memories  and  gradually  change  the  bias 
of  our  fear,  as  we  do  our  tastes.  Take  your  fear 
as  a  safeguard.  It  is  like  quickness  of  hearing. 
It  may  make  consequences  passionately  present 
to  you.  Try  to  take  hold  of  your  sensibility, 
and  use  it  as  if  it  were  a  faculty,  like  vision." 
Deronda  uttered  each  sentence  more  urgently; 
^he  felt  as  if  he  were  seizing  a  faint  chance  of 
rescuing  her  from  some  indefinite  danger. 

"Yes,  I  know;  I  understand  what  you 
mean,"  said  Gwendolen,  in  her  loud  whisper, 
not  turning  her  eyes,  but  lifting  up  her  small 
gloved  hand  and  waving  it  in  deprecation  of  the 
notion  that  it  was  easy  to  obey  that  advice. 
"  But  if  feelings  rose,  —  there  are  some  feelings, 

VOL.  XIII  17 


258  DANIEL  DERONDA 


—  hatred  and  anger,  —  how  can  I  be  good  when 
they  keep  rising?  And  if  there  came  a  moment 
when  I  felt  stifled  and  could  bear  it  no  longer 
— "  She  broke  off,  and  with  agitated  lips 
looked  at  Deronda,  but  the  expression  on  his  face 
pierced  her  with  an  entirely  new  feeling.  He 
was  under  the  baffling  difficulty  of  discerning 
that  what  he  had  been  urging  on  her  was  thrown 
into  the  pallid  distance  of  mere  thought  before 
the  outburst  of  her  habitual  emotion.  It  was 
as  if  he  saw  her  drowning  while  his  limbs  were 
bound.  The  pained  compassion  which  was 
spread  over  his  features  as  he  watched  her 
affected  her  with  a  compunction  unlike  any  she 
had  felt  before,  and  in  a  changed,  imploring 
tone  she  said,  — 

"  I  am  grieving  you.  I  am  ungrateful.  You 
can  help  me.  I  will  think  of  everything.  I  will 
try.  Tell  me  —  it  will  not  be  a  pain  to  you  that 
I  have  dared  to  speak  of  my  trouble  to  you? 
You  began  it,  you  know,  when  you  rebuked 
me."  There  was  a  melancholy  smile  on  her  lips 
as  she  said  that,  but  she  added  more  entreat- 
ingly,  "  It  will  not  be  a  pain  to  you?  " 

"  Not  if  it  does  anything  to  save  you  from  an 
evil  to  come,"  said  Deronda,  with  strong  em- 
phasis; "  otherwise  it  will  be  a  lasting  pain." 

"  No  —  no  —  it  shall  not  be.  It  may  be  —  it 
shall  be  better  with  me  because  I  have  known 
you."  She  turned  immediately,  and  quitted  the 
room. 

When  she  was  on  the  first  landing  of  the 
staircase.  Sir  Hugo  passed  across  the  hall  on 
his  way  to  the  library,  and  saw  her.  Grandcourt 
was  not  with  him. 


MORDECAI 


259 


Deronda,  when  the  baronet  entered,  was 
standing  in  his  ordinary  attitude,  grasping  his 
coat-collar,  with  his  back  to  the  table,  and  with 
that  indefinable  expression  by  which  we  judge 
that  a  man  is  still  in  the  shadow  of  a  scene  which 
he  has  just  gone  through.  He  moved,  however, 
and  began  to  arrange  the  letters. 

"  Has  Mrs.  Grandcourt  been  in  here? "  said 
Sir  Hugo. 

"  Yes,  she  has." 

"Where  are  the  others?" 

"  I  believe  she  left  them  somewhere  in  the 
grounds." 

After  a  moment's  silence,  in  which  Sir  Hugo 
looked  at  a  letter  without  reading  it,  he  said, 
"  I  hope  you  are  not  playing  with  fire,  Dan,  — 
you  understand  me?  " 

"  I  believe  I  do,  sir,"  said  Deronda,  after  a 
slight  hesitation,  which  had  some  repressed 
anger  in  it.  "  But  there  is  nothing  answering  to 
your  metaphor,  —  no  fire,  and  therefore  no 
chance  of  scorching." 

Sir  Hugo  looked  searchingly  at  him,  and  then 
said,  "  So  much  the  better.  For  between  our- 
selves, I  fancy  there  may  be  some  hidden  gun- 
powder in  that  establishment." 


CHAPTER  III 


"Aspem.       Pardon,  my  lord  —  1  speak  for  Sigismund. 

Fronsberg.  For  him  ?    Oh,  ay  —  for  him  I  always  hold 
A  pardon  safe  in  bank,  sure  he  will  draw 
Sooner  or  later  on  me.    What  his  need  ? 
Mad  project  broken  ?    fine  mechanic  wings 
That  would  not  fly  ?    durance,  assault  on  watch, 
Bill  for  Epernay,  not  a  crust  to  eat  ? 

Aspem.      Oh,  none  of  these,  my  lord ;  he  has  escaped 
From  Circe's  herd,  and  seeks  to  win  the  love 
Of  your  fair  ward  Cecilia:  but  would  win 
First  your  consent.    You  frown. 

Fronsberg.  Distinguish  words. 

I  said  I  held  a  pardon,  not  consent."  • 

IN  spite  of  Deronda's  reasons  for  wishing  to 
be  in  town  again,  —  reasons  in  which  his 
anxiety  for  Mirah  was  blent  with  curiosity 
to  know  more  of  the  enigmatic  Mordecai,  —  he 
did  not  manage  to  go  up  before  Sir  Hugo,  who 
preceded  his  family  that  he  might  be  ready  for 
the  opening  of  Parliament  on  the  6th  of  Febru- 
ary. Deronda  took  up  his  quarters  in  Park 
Lane,  aware  that  his  chambers  were  sufficiently 
tenanted  by  Hans  Meyrick.  This  was  what  he 
expected;  but  he  found  other  things  not  alto- 
gether according  to  his  expectations. 

Most  of  us  remember  Retzsch's  drawing  of 
destiny  in  the  shape  of  Mephistopheles  playing 
at  chess  with  man  for  his  soul,  a  game  in  which 
we  may  imagine  the  clever  adversary  making 
a  feint  of  unintended  moves  so  as  to  set  the  be- 
guiled mortal  on  carrying  his  defensive  pieces 
away  from  the  true  point  of  attack.  The  fiend 
makes  preparation  his  favourite  object  of  mock- 
ery, that  he  may  fatally  persuade  us  against 


MORDECAI 


261 


our  best  safeguard:  he  even  meddles  so  far  as 
to  suggest  our  taking  out  waterproofs  when  he 
is  well  aware  the  sky  is  going  to  clear,  foreseeing 
that  the  imbecile  will  turn  this  delusion  into  a 
prejudice  against  waterproofs  instead  of  giving 
a  closer  study  to  the  weather-signs.  It  is  a 
peculiar  test  of  a  man's  metal  when,  after  he 
has  painfully '  adjusted  himself  to  what  seems 
a  wise  provision,  he  finds  all  his  mental  precau- 
tion a  little  beside  the  mark,  and  his  excellent 
intentions  no  better  than  miscalculated  dovetails, 
accurately  cut  from  a  wrong  starting-point. 
His  magnanimity  has  got  itself  ready  to  meet 
misbehaviour,  and  finds  quite  a  different  call 
upon  it.  Something  of  this  kind  happened  to 
Deronda. 

His  first  impression  was  one  of  pure  pleasure 
and  amusement  at  finding  his  sitting-room 
transformed  into  an  atelier  strewed  with  miscel- 
laneous drawings  and  with  the  contents  of  two 
chests  from  Rome,  the  lower  half  of  the  windows 
darkened  with  baize,  and  the  blond  Hans  in 
his  weird  youth  as  the  presiding  genius  of  the 
littered  place,  —  his  hair  longer  than  of  old,  his 
face  more  whimsically  creased,  and  his  high 
voice  as  usual  getting  higher  under  the  excite- 
ment of  rapid  talk.  The  friendship  of  the  two 
had  been  kept  up  warmly  since  the  memorable 
Cambridge  time,  not  only  by  correspondence 
but  by  little  episodes  of  companionship  abroad 
and  in  England,  and  the  original  relation  of  con- 
fidence on  one  side  and  indulgence  on  the  other 
had  been  developed  in  practice,  as  is  wont  to 
be  the  case  where  such  spiritual  borrowing  and 
lending  has  been  well  begun. 


262  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  I  knew  you  would  like  to  see  my  casts  and 
antiquities,"  said  Hans,  after  the  first  hearty 
greetings  and  inquiries,  "  so  I  did  n't  scruple  to 
unlade  my  chests  here.  But  I  Ve  found  two 
rooms  at  Chelsea  not  many  hundred  yards  from 
my  mother  and  sisters,  and  I  shall  soon  be  ready 
to  hang  out  there,  —  when  they 've  scraped  the 
walls  and  put  in  some  new  lights.  That 's  all 
I 'm  waiting  for.  But  you  see  I  don't  wait  to 
begin  work:  you  can't  conceive  what  a  great 
fellow  I 'm  going  to  be.  The  seed  of  immor- 
tality has  sprouted  within  me." 

"  Only  a  fungoid  growth,  I  dare  say,  —  a 
crowing  disease  in  the  lungs,"  said  Deronda, 
accustomed  to  treat  Hans  in  brotherly  fashion. 
He  was  walking  towards  some  drawings 
propped  on  the  ledge  of  his  bookcases:  five 
rapidly  sketched  heads,  —  different  aspects  of 
the  same  face.  He  stood  at  a  convenient  dis- 
tance from  them,  without  making  any  remark. 
Hans,  too,  was  silent  for  a  minute,  took  up  his 
palette,  and  began  touching  the  picture  on  his 
easel. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  them? "  he  said  at 
last. 

"  The  full  face  looks  too  massive;  otherwise 
the  likenesses  are  good,"  said  DerOnda,  more 
coldly  than  was  usual  with  him. 

"  No,  it  is  not  too  massive,"  said  Hans,  de- 
cisively. "  I  have  noted  that.  There  is  always 
a  little  surprise  when  one  passes  from  the  pro- 
file to  the  full  face.  But  I  shall  enlarge  her 
scale  for  Berenice.  I  am  making  a  Berenice 
series,  —  look  at  the  sketches  along  there,  — • 
and  now  I  think  of  it,  you  are  just  the  model 


MORDECAI  263 


I  want  for  the  Agrippa."  Hans,  still  with 
pencil  and  palette  in  hand,  had  moved  to  De- 
ronda's  side  while  he  said  this;  but  he  added 
hastily,  as  if  conscious  of  a  mistake,  "No,  no, 
I  forgot;  you  don't  like  sitting  for  your  por- 
trait, confound  you!  However,  I  've  picked  up 
a  capital  Titus.  There  are  to  be  five  in  the 
series.  The  first  is  Berenice  clasping  the  knees 
of  Gessius  Florus  and  beseeching  him  to  spare 
her  people;  I  Ve  got  that  on  the  easel.  Then 
this,  where  she  is  standing  on  the  Xystus  with 
Agrippa,  entreating  the  people  not  to  injure 
themselves  by  resistance." 

"  Agrippa's  legs  will  never  do,"  said  De- 
ronda. 

"  The  legs  are  good  realistically,"  said  Hans, 
his  face  creasing  drolly;  "  public  men  are  often 
shaky  about  the  legs,  — '  Their  legs,  the  em- 
blem of  their  various  thought,'  as  somebody  says 
in  the  *  Rehearsal.'  " 

"  But  these  are  as  impossible  as  the  legs  of 
Raphael's  Alcibiades,"  said  Deronda. 

"  Then  they  are  good  ideally,"  said  Hans. 
"Agrippa's  legs  were  possibly  bad;  I  idealize 
that,  and  make  them  impossibly  bad.  Art,  my 
Eugenius,  must  intensify.  But  never  mind  the 
legs  now:  the  third  sketch  in  the  series  is  Bere- 
nice exulting  in  the  prospect  of  being  Empress 
of  Rome,  when  the  news  has  come  that  Ves- 
pasian is  declared  Emperor  and  her  lover  Titus 
his  successor." 

"  You  must  put  a  scroll  in  her  mouth,  else 
people  will  not  understand  that.  You  can't  tell 
that  in  a  picture." 

"  It  will  make  them  feel  their  ignorance  then. 


264  DANIEL  DERONDA 


—  an  excellent  aesthetic  effect.  The  fourth  is, 
Titus  sending  Berenice  away  from  Rome  after 
she  has  shared  his  palace  for  ten  years,  —  both 
reluctant,  both  sad,  —  invitus  invitam,  as  Sue- 
tonius hath  it.  I  've  found  a  model  for  the 
Roman  brute." 

"  Shall  you  make  Berenice  look  fifty?  She 
must  have  been  that." 

"  No,  no;  a  few  mature  touches  to  show  the 
lapse  of  time.  Dark-eyed  beauty  wears  well, 
hers  particularly.  But  now,  here  is  the  fifth: 
Berenice  seated  lonely  on  the  ruins  of  Jerusalem. 
That  is  pure  imagination.  That  is  what  ought 
to  have  been  —  perhaps  was.  Now,  see  how 
I  tell  a  pathetic  negative.  Nobody  knows  what 
became  of  her:  that  is  finely  indicated  by  the 
series  coming  to  a  close.  There  is  no  sixth  pic- 
ture." Here  Hans  pretended  to  speak  with  a 
gasping  sense  of  sublimity,  and  drew  back  his 
head  with  a  frown,  as  if  looking  for  a  like  im- 
pression on  Deronda.  "  I  break  off  in  the 
Homeric  style.  The  story  is  chipped  off,  so 
to  speak,  and  passes  with  a  ragged  edge  into 
nothing,  —  le  neant;  can  anything  be  more  sub- 
lime, especially  in  French?  The  vulgar  would 
desire  to  see  her  corpse  and  burial  —  perhaps 
her  will  read  and  her  linen  distributed.  But  now 
come  and  look  at  this  on  the  easel.  I  have  made 
some  way  there." 

"  That  beseeching  attitude  is  really  good," 
said  Deronda,  after  a  moment's  contemplation. 
"  You  have  been  very  industrious  in  the  Christ- 
mas holidays;  for  I  suppose  you  have  taken 
up  the  subject  since  you  came  to  London." 
Neither  of  them  had  yet  mentioned  Mirah. 


MORDECAI 


265 


"  No,"  said  Hans,  putting  touches  to  his  pic- 
ture, "  I  made  up  my  mind  to  the  subject  before. 
I  take  that  lucky  chance  for  an  augury  that  I  am 
going  to  burst  on  the  world  as  a  great  painter. 
I  saw  a  splendid  woman  in  the  Trastevere,  — 
the  grandest  women  there  are  half  Jewesses, 

—  and  she  set  me  hunting  for  a  fine  situation 
of  a  Jewess  at  Rome.  Like  other  men  of  vast 
learning,  I  ended  by  taking  what  lay  on  the 
surface.  I  '11  show  you  a  sketch  of  the  Traste- 
verina's  head  when  I  can  lay  my  hands  on  it." 

"  I  should  think  she  would  be  a  more  suitable 
model  for  Berenice,"  said  Deronda,  not  knowing 
exactly  how  to  express  his  discontent. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  The  model  ought  to  be  the 
most  beautiful  Jewess  in  the  world,  and  I  have 
found  her." 

Have  you  made  yourself  sure  that  she  would 
like  to  figure  in  that  character?  I  should  think 
no  woman  would  be  more  abhorrent  to  her. 
Does  she  quite  know  what  you  are  doing?  " 

"  Certainly.  I  got  her  to  throw  herself  pre- 
cisely into  this  attitude.  Little  mother  sat  for 
Gessius  Florus,  and  Mirah  clasped  her  knees." 

—  Here  Hans  went  a  little  way  off  and  looked 
at  the  effect  of  his  touches. 

"  I  dare  say  she  knows  nothing  about  Bere- 
nice's history,"  said  Deronda,  feeling  more  in- 
dignation than  he  would  have  been  able  to 
justify. 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  does,  —  ladies'  edition.  Bere- 
nice was  a  fervid  patriot,  but  was  beguiled  by 
love  and  ambition  into  attaching  herself  to  the 
arch-enemy  of  her  people.  Whence  the  Neme- 
sis.  Mirah  takes  it  as  a  tragic  parable,  and  cries 


266  DANIEL  DERONDA 


to  think  what  the  penitent  Berenice  suffered 
as  she  wandered  back  to  Jerusalem  and  sat  des- 
olate amidst  desolation.  That  was  her  own 
phrase.  I  could  n't  find  in  my  heart  to  tell  her 
I  invented  that  part  of  the  story." 

"  Show  me  your  Trasteverina,"  said  Deronda, 
chiefly  in  order  to  hinder  himself  from  saying 
something  else. 

"  Shall  you  mind  turning  over  that  folio?" 
said  Hans.  "  My  studies  of  heads  are  all  there. 
But  they  are  in  confusion.  You  will  perhaps 
find  her  next  to  a  crop-eared  undergraduate." 

After  Deronda  had  been  turning  over  the 
drawings  a  minute  or  two,  he  said,  — 

"  These  seem  to  be  all  Cambridge  heads  and 
bits  of  country.  Perhaps  I  had  better  begin  at 
the  other  end." 

"No;  you'll  find  her  about  the  middle.  I 
emptied  one  folio  into  another." 

"  Is  this  one  of  your  undergraduates?  "  said 
Deronda,  holding  up  a  drawing.  "  It 's  an  un- 
usually agreeable  face." 

"  That?  Oh,  that 's  a  man  named  Gascoigne, 
—  Rex  Gascoigne.  An  uncommonly  good  fel- 
low; his  upper  lip,  too,  is  good.  I  coached  him 
before  he  got  his  scholarship.  He  ought  to  have 
taken  honours  last  Easter.  But  he  was  ill,  and 
has  had  to  stay  up  another  year.  I  must  look 
him  up.   I  want  to  know  how  he 's  going  on." 

"  Here  she  is,  I  suppose,"  said  Deronda,  hold- 
ing up  a  sketch  of  the  Trasteverina. 

"  Ah,"  said  Hans,  looking  at  it  rather  con- 
temptuously, "  too  coarse.  I  was  unregenerate 
then." 

Deronda  was  silent  while  he  closed  the  folio. 


MORDECAI 


267 


leaving  the  Trasteverina  outside.  Then  grasp- 
ing his  coat-collar,  and  turning  towards  Hans, 
he  said,  "  I  dare  say  my  scruples  are  excessive, 
Meyrick,  but  I  must  ask  you  to  oblige  me  by 
giving  up  this  notion." 

Hans  threw  himself  into  a  tragic  attitude,  and 
screamed:  "What!  my  series  —  my  immortal 
Berenice  series  ?  Think  of  what  you  are  saying, 
man,  —  destroying,  as  Milton  says,  not  a  life 
but  an  immortality.  Wait  before  you  answer, 
that  I  may  deposit  the  implements  of  my  art 
and  be  ready  to  uproot  my  hair." 

Here  Hans  laid  down  his  pencil  and  palette, 
threw  himself  backward  into  a  great  chair,  and 
hanging  limply  over  the  side,  shook  his  long  hair 
half  over  his  face,  lifted  his  hooked  fingers  on 
each  side  his  head,  and  looked  up  with  comic 
terror  at  Deronda,  who  was  obliged  to  smile  as 
he  said,  — 

"  Paint  as  many  Berenices  as  you  like,  but  I 
wish  you  could  feel  with  me  —  perhaps  you  will, 
on  reflection  —  that  you  should  choose  another 
model." 

"  Why?  "  said  Hans,  standing  up,  and  look- 
ing serious  again. 

Because  she  may  get  into  such  a  position 
that  her  face  is  likely  to  be  recognized.  Mrs. 
Meyrick  and  I  are  anxious  for  her  that  she 
should  be  known  as  an  admirable  singer.  It  is 
right,  and  she  wishes  it,  that  she  should  make 
herself  independent.  And  she  has  excellent 
chances.  One  good  introduction  is  secured  al- 
ready. And  I  am  going  to  speak  to  Klesmer. 
Her  face  may  come  to  be  very  well  known, 
and  —  well,  it  is  useless  to  attempt  to  explain, 


268  DANIEL  DERONDA 


unless  you  feel  as  I  do.  I  believe  that  if 
Mirah  saw  the  circumstances  clearly,  she  would 
strongly  object  to  being  exhibited  in  this  way, 
—  to  allowing  herself  to  be  used  as  a  model  for 
a  heroine  of  this  sort." 

As  Hans  stood  with  his  thumbs  in  the  belt 
of  his  blouse  listening  to  this  speech,  his  face 
showed  a  growing  surprise  melting  into  amuse- 
ment, that  at  last  would  have  its  way  in  an 
explosive  laugh ;  but  seeing  that  Deronda  looked 
gravely  offended,  he  checked  himself  to  say: 
"  Excuse  my  laughing,  Deronda.  You  never 
gave  me  an  advantage  over  you  before.  If  it 
had  been  about  anything  but  my  own  pictures, 
I  should  have  swallowed  every  word  because 
you  said  it.  And  so  you  actually  believe  that 
I  should  get  my  five  pictures  hung  on  the  line 
in  a  conspicuous  position,  and  carefully  studied 
by  the  public?  Zounds,  man!  cider-cup  and 
conceit  never  gave  me  half  such  a  beautiful 
dream.  My  pictures  are  likely  to  remain  as 
private  as  the  utmost  hypersensitiveness  could 
desire." 

Hans  turned  to  paint  again  as  a  way  of  fill- 
ing up  awkward  pauses.  Deronda  stood  per- 
fectly still,  recognizing  his  mistake  as  to  pub- 
licity, but  also  conscious  that  his  repugnance 
was  not  much  diminished.  He  was  the  reverse 
of  satisfied  either  with  himself  or  with  Hans; 
but  the  power  of  being  quiet  carries  a  man  well 
through  moments  of  embarrassment.  Hans  had 
a  reverence  for  his  friend  which  made  him  feel 
a  sort  of  shyness  at  Deronda's  being  in  the 
wrong;  but  it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  give  up 
anything  readily,  though  it  were  only  a  whim 


MORDECAI 


269 


—  or  rather,  especially  if  it  were  a  whim,  —  and 
he  presently  went  on,  painting  the  while :  — 

"  But  even  supposing  I  had  a  public  rushing 
after  my  pictures  as  if  they  were  a  railway 
series  including  nurses,  babies,  and  bonnet-boxes, 
I  can't  see  any  justice  in  your  objection.  Every 
painter  worth  remembering  has  painted  the  face 
he  admired  most,  as  often  as  he  could.  It  is 
a  part  of  his  soul  that  goes  out  into  his  pic- 
tures. He  diffuses  its  influence  in  that  way. 
He  puts  what  he  hates  into  a  caricature.  He 
puts  what  he  adores  into  some  sacred,  heroic 
form.  If  a  man  could  paint  the  woman  he  loves 
a  thousand  times  as  the  Stella  Maris  to  put 
courage  into  the  sailors  on  board  a  thousand 
ships,  so  much  the  more  honour  to  her.  Is  n't 
that  better  than  painting  a  piece  of  staring  im- 
modesty and  calling  it  by  a  worshipful  name?  " 

"  Every  objection  can  be  answered  if  you  take 
broad  ground  enough,  Hans:  no  special  ques- 
tion of  conduct  can  be  properly  settled  in  that 
way,"  said  Deronda,  with  a  touch  of  peremptori- 
ness.  "  I  might  admit  all  your  generalities,  and 
yet  be  right  in  saying  you  ought  not  to  publish 
Mirah's  face  as  a  model  for  Berenice.  But  I 
give  up  the  question  of  publicity.  I  was  un- 
reasonable there."  Deronda  hesitated  a  mo- 
ment. "  Still,  even  as  a  private  affair,  there 
might  be  good  reasons  for  your  not  indulging 
yourself  too  much  in  painting  her  from  the  point 
of  view  you  mention.  You  must  feel  that  her 
situation  at  present  is  a  very  delicate  one;  and 
until  she  is  in  more  independence,  she  should 
be  kept  as  carefully  as  a  bit  of  Venetian  glass, 
for  fear  of  shaking  her  out  of  the  safe  place 


270  DANIEL  DERONDA 


she  is  lodged  in.  Are  you  quite  sure  of  your 
own  discretion?  Excuse  me,  Hans.  My  having 
found  her  binds  me  to  watch  over  her.  Do  you 
understand  me?  " 

"  Perfectly,"  said  Hans,  turning  his  face  into 
a  good-humoured  smile.  "  You  have  the  very 
justifiable  opinion  of  me  that  I  am  likely  to 
shatter  all  the  glass  in  my  way,  and  break  my 
own  skull  into  the  bargain.  Quite  fair.  Since 
I  got  into  the  scrape  of  being  born,  everything 
I  have  liked  best  has  been  a  scrape  either  for 
myself  or  somebody  else.  Everything  I  have 
taken  to  heartily  has  somehow  turned  into  a 
scrape.  My  painting  is  the  last  scrape;  and 
I  shall  be  all  my  life  getting  out  of  it.  You 
think  now  I  shall  get  into  a  scrape  at  home. 
No;  I  am  regenerate.  You  think  I  must  be 
over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  Mirah.  Quite 
right;  so  I  am.  But  you  think  I  shall  scream 
and  plunge  and  spoil  everything.  There  you 
are  mistaken,  —  excusably  but  transcendently 
mistaken.  I  have  undergone  baptism  by  im- 
mersion. Awe  takes  care  of  me.  Ask  the  little 
mother." 

"  You  don't  reckon  a  hopeless  love  among 
your  scrapes,  then?  "  said  Deronda,  whose  voice 
seemed  to  get  deeper  as  Hans's  went  higher. 

"  I  don't  mean  to  call  mine  hopeless,"  said 
Hans,  with  provoking  coolness,  laying  down  his 
tools,  thrusting  his  thumbs  into  his  belt,  and 
moving  away  a  little,  as  if  to  contemplate  his 
picture  more  deliberately. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  you  are  only  preparing 
misery  for  yourself,"  said  Deronda,  decisively. 
"  She  would  not  marry  a  Christian,  even  if  she 


MORDECAI 


271 


loved  him.  Have  you  heard  her  —  of  course 
you  have  —  heard  her  speak  of  her  people  and 
her  religion? " 

"  That  can't  last,"  said  Hans.  "  She  will  see 
no  Jew  who  is  tolerable.  Every  male  of  that 
race  is  insupportable,  —  '  insupportably  advanc- 
ing '  —  his  nose." 

"  She  may  rejoin  her  family.  That  is  what 
she  longs  for.  Her  mother  and  brother  are 
probably  strict  Jews." 

"  I  '11  turn  proselyte  if  she  wishes  it,"  said 
Hans,  with  a  shrug  and  a  laugh. 

"  Don't  talk  nonsense,  Hans.  I  thought  you 
professed  a  serious  love  for  her,"  said  Deronda, 
getting  heated. 

"  So  I  do.  You  think  it  desperate,  but  I 
don't." 

"  I  know  nothing;  I  can't  tell  what  has  hap- 
pened. We  must  be  prepared  for  surprises. 
But  I  can  hardly  imagine  a  greater  surprise  to 
me  than  that  there  should  have  seemed  to  be 
anything  in  Mirah's  sentiments  for  you  to  found 
a  romantic  hope  on."  Deronda  felt  that  he  was 
too  contemptuous. 

"  I  don't  found  my  romantic  hopes  on  a 
woman's  sentiments,"  said  Hans,  perversely  in- 
clined to  be  the  merrier  when  he  was  addressed 
with  gravity.  "  I  go  to  science  and  philosophy 
for  my  romance.  Nature  designed  Mirah  to 
fall  in  love  with  me.  The  amalgamation  of 
races  demands  it  —  the  mitigation  of  human 
ugliness  demancjs  it  —  the  affinity  of  contrasts 
assures  it.  I  am  the  utmost  contrast  to  Mirah, 
—  a  bleached  Christian  who  can't  sing  two  notes 
in  tune.    Who  has  a  chance  against  me?  " 


272  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"I  see  now;  it  was  all  persiflage.  You  don't 
mean  a  word  of  what  you  say,  Meyriek,"  said 
Deronda,  laying  his  hand  on  Meyrick's  shoulder, 
and  speaking  in  a  tone  of  cordial  relief.  "  I 
was  a  wiseacre  to  answer  you  seriously." 

"  Upon  my  honour  I  do  mean  it,  though," 
said  Hans,  facing  round  and  laying  his  left 
hand  on  Deronda's  shoulder,  so  that  their  eyes 
fronted  each  other  closely.  "  I  am  at  the  con- 
fessional. I  meant  to  tell  you  as  soon  as  you 
came.  My  mother  says  you  are  Mir  ah' s  guard- 
ian, and  she  thinks  herself  responsible  to  you 
for  every  breath  that  falls  on  Mirah  in  her  house. 
Well,  I  love  her  —  I  worship  her  —  I  won't 
despair  —  I  mean  to  deserve  her." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  you  can't  do  it,"  said  De- 
ronda, quickly. 

"  I  should  have  said,  I  mean  to  try." 

"  You  can't  keep  your  resolve,  Hans.  You 
used  to  resolve  what  you  would  do  for  your 
mother  and  sisters." 

"  You  have  a  right  to  reproach  me,  old  fel- 
low," said  Hans,  gently. 

"  Perhaps  I  am  ungenerous,"  said  Deronda, 
not  apologetically,  however.  "  Yet  it  can't  be 
ungenerous  to  warn  you  that  you  are  indulg- 
ing mad.  Quixotic  expectations." 

"  Who  will  be  hurt  but  myself,  then? "  said 
Hans,  putting  out  his  lip.  "  I  am  not  going 
to  say  anything  to  her,  unless  I  felt  sure  of  the 
answer.  I  dare  not  ask  the  oracles:  I  prefer 
a  cheerful  caliginosity,  as  Sir  Thomas  Browne 
might  say.  I  would  rather  run  my  chance  there 
and  lose,  than  be  sure  of  winning  anywhere  else. 
And  I  don't  mean  to  swallow  the  poison  of 


MORDECAI 


273 


despair,  though  you  are  disposed  to  thrust  it 
on  me.  I  am  giving  up  wine;  so  let  me  get  a 
httle  drunk  on  hope  and  vanity." 

"  With  all  my  heart,  if  it  will  do  you  any 
good,"  said  Deronda,  loosing  Hans's  shoulder 
with  a  little  push.  He  made  his  tone  kindly, 
but  his  words  were  from  the  lip  only.  As  to 
his  real  feeling  he  was  silenced. 

He  was  conscious  of  that  peculiar  irritation 
which  will  sometimes  befall  the  man  whom 
others  are  inclined  to  trust  as  a  mentor,  —  the 
irritation  of  perceiving  that  he  is  supposed  to  be 
entirely  off  the  same  plane  of  desire  and  tempta- 
tion as  those  who  confess  to  him.  Our  guides, 
we  pretend,  must  be  sinless:  as  if  those  were 
not  often  the  best  teachers  who  only  yester- 
day got  corrected  for  their  mistakes.  Through- 
out their  friendship  Deronda  had  been  used  to 
Hans's  egotism,  but  he  had  never  before  felt 
intolerant  of  it:  when  Hans,  habitually  pour- 
ing out  his  own  feenngs  and  affau's,  had  never 
cared  for  any  detail  in  return,  and,  if  he  chanced 
to  know  any,  had  soon  forgotten  it.  Deronda 
had  been  inwardly  as  well  as  outwardly  indul- 
gent, —  nay,  satisfied.  But  now  he  noted  with 
some  indignation,  all  the  stronger  because  it 
must  not  be  betrayed,  Hans's  evident  assump- 
tion that  for  any  danger  of  rivalry  or  jealousy 
in  relation  to  Mirah,  Deronda  was  as  much  out 
of  the  question  as  the  angel  Gabriel.  It  is  one 
thing  to  be  resolute  in  placing  one's  self  out  of 
the  question,  and  another  to  endure  that  others 
should  perform  that  exclusion  for  us.  He  had 
expected  that  Hans  would  give  him  trouble: 
what  he  had  not  expected  was  that  the  trouble 

VOL.  XIII  — 18 


274  DANIEL  DERONDA 


would  have  a  strong  element  of  personal  feeling. 
And  he  was  rather  ashamed  that  Hans's  hopes 
caused  him  uneasiness  in  spite  of  his  well-war- 
ranted conviction  that  they  would  never  be  ful- 
filled. They  had  raised  an  image  of  Mirah 
changing;  and  however  he  might  protest  that 
the  change  would  not  happen,  the  protest  kept 
up  the  unpleasant  image.  Altogether,  poor 
Hans  seemed  to  be  entering  into  Deronda's 
experience  in  a  disproportionate  manner,  — 
going  beyond  his  part  of  rescued  prodigal,  and 
rousing  a  feeling  quite  distinct  from  compas- 
sionate affection. 

When  Deronda  went  to  Chelsea  he  was  not 
made  as  comfortable  as  he  ought  to  have  been 
by  Mrs.  Meyrick's  evident  release  from  anxiety 
about  the  beloved  but  incalculable  son.  Mirah 
seemed  livelier  than  before,  and  for  the  first 
time  he  saw  her  laugh.  It  was  when  they 
were  talking  of  Hans,  he  being  naturally  the 
mother's  first  topic.  Mirah  wished  to  know  if 
Deronda  had  seen  Mr.  Hans  going  through 
a  sort  of  character  piece  without  changing  his 
dress. 

"  He  passes  from  one  figure  to  another  as  if 
he  were  a  bit  of  flame  where  you  fancied  the 
figures  without  seeing  them,"  said  Mirah,  full 
of  her  subject;  "he  is  so  wonderfully  quick. 
I  used  never  to  like  comic  things  on  the  stage, 
—  they  were  dwelt  on  too  long ;  but  all  in  one 
minute  Mr.  Hans  makes  himself  a  blind  bard, 
and  then  Rienzi  addressing  the  Romans, .  and 
then  an  opera-dancer,  and  then  a  desponding 
young  gentleman,  —  I  am  sorry  for  them  all, 
and  yet  I  laugh,  all  in  one  "  —  here  Mirah  gave 


MORDECAI 


275 


a  little  laugh  that  might  have  entered  into  a 
song. 

"  We  hardly  thought  that  Mirah  could  laugh 
till  Hans  came,"  said  Mrs.  Meyrick,  seeing  that 
Deronda,  like  herself,  was  observing  the  pretty 
picture. 

Hans  seems  in  great  force  just  now,"  said 
Deronda,  in  a  tone  of  congratulation.  "  I  don't 
wonder  at  his  enlivening  you." 

"  He 's  been  just  perfect  ever  since  he  came 
back,"  said  Mrs.  Meyrick,  keeping  to  herself 
the  next  clause,  —  "if  it  will  but  last." 

"  It  is  a  great  happiness,"  said  Mirah,  "  to  see 
the  son  and  brother  come  into  this  dear  home. 
And  I  hear  them  all  talk  about  what  they  did 
together  when  they  were  little.  That  seems  like 
heaven,  to  have  a  mother  and  brother  who  talk  in 
that  way.   I  have  never  had  it." 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Deronda,  involuntarily. 

"  No?  "  said  Mirah,  regretfully.  "  I  wish  you 
had.  I  wish  you  had  had  every  good."  The  last 
words  were  uttered  with  a  serious  ardour  as  if 
they  had  been  part  of  a  litany,  while  her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  Deronda,  who  with  his  elbow  on 
the  back  of  his  chair  was  contemplating  her  by 
the  new  light  of  the  impression  she  had  made  on 
Hans,  and  the  possibility  of  her  being  attracted 
by  that  extraordinary  contrast.  It  was  no  more 
than  what  had  happened  on  each  former  visit  of 
his,  that  Mirah  appeared  to  enjoy  speaking  of 
what  she  felt  very  much  as  a  little  girl  fresh 
from  school  pours  forth  spontaneously  all  the 
long-repressed  chat  for  which  she  has  found  will- 
ing ears.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  Mirah 
was  among  those  whom  she  entirely  trusted,  and 


276         DANIEL  DERONDA 


her  original  visionary  impression  that  Deronda 
was  a  divinely  sent  messenger  hung  about  his 
image  still,  stirring  always  anew  the  disposition 
to  reliance  and  openness.  It  was  in  this  way  she 
took  what  might  have  been  the  injurious  flattery 
of  admiring  attention  into  which  her  helpless  de- 
pendence had  been  suddenly  transformed ;  every 
one  around  her  watched  for  her  looks  and  words, 
and  the  effect  on  her  was  simply  that  of  having 
passed  from  a  stifling  imprisonment  into  an  ex- 
hilarating air  which  made  speech  and  action  a 
delight.  To  her  mind  it  was  all  a  gift  from 
others'  goodness.  But  that  word  of  Deronda's 
implying  that  there  had  been  some  lack  in  his 
life  which  might  be  compared  with  anything  she 
had  known  in  hers,  was  an  entirely  new  inlet  of 
thought  about  him.  After  her  first  expression 
of  sorrowful  surprise  she  went  on,  — 

"  But  Mr.  Hans  said  yesterday  that  you 
thought  so  much  of  others  you  hardly  wanted 
anything  for  yourself.  He  told  us  a  wonderful 
story  of  Bouddha  giving  himself  to  the  famished 
tigress  to  save  her  and  her  little  ones  from  starv- 
ing. And  he  said  you  were  like  Bouddha.  That 
is  what  we  all  imagine  of  you." 

"  Pray  don't  imagine  that,"  said  Deronda, 
who  had  lately  been  finding  such  suppositions 
rather  exasperating.  "  Even  if  it  were  true  that 
I  thought  so  much  of  others,  it  would  not  follow 
that  I  had  no  wants  for  myself.  When  Bouddha 
let  the  tigress  eat  him,  he  might  have  been  very 
hungry  himself." 

"  Perhaps  if  he  was  starved  he  would  not 
mind  so  much  about  being  eaten,"  said  Mab, 
shyly. 


MORDECAI 


277 


"  Please  don't  think  that,  Mab ;  it  takes  away 
the  beauty  of  the  action,"  said  Mirah. 

"  But  if  it  were  true,  Mirah?  "  said  the  rational 
Amy,  having  a  half -holiday  from  her  teaching; 
"  you  always  take  what  is  beautiful  as  if  it  were 
true." 

"  So  it  is,"  said  Mirah,  gently.  "  If  people 
have  thought  what  is  the  most  beautiful  and  the 
best  thing,  it  must  be  true.   It  is  always  there." 

"  Now,  Mirah,  what  do  you  mean? "  said 
Amy. 

"  I  understand  her,"  said  Deronda,  coming 
to  the  rescue.  "  It  is  a  truth  in  thought,  though 
it  may  never  have  been  carried  out  in  action.  It 
lives  as  an  idea.  Is  that  it?"  He  turned  to 
Mirah,  who  was  listening  with  a  blind  look  in 
her  lovely  eyes. 

It  must  be  that,  because  you  understand 
me,  but  I  cannot  quite  explain,"  said  Mirah, 
rather  abstractedly,  —  still  searching  for  some 
expression. 

"  But  was  it  beautiful  for  Bouddha  to  let  the 
tiger  eat  him?  "  said  Amy,  changing  her  ground. 
"  It  would  be  a  bad  pattern." 

"  The  world  would  get  full  of  fat  tigers,"  said 
Mab. 

Deronda  laughed,  but  defended  the  myth. 
"It  is  like  a  passionate  word,"  he  said;  "the 
exaggeration  is  a  flash  of  fervour.  It  is  an  ex- 
treme image  of  what  is  happening  every  day,  — 
the  transmutation  of  self." 

"  I  think  I  can  say  what  I  mean  now,"  said 
Mirah,  who  had  not  heard  the  intermediate  talk. 
"  When  the  best  thing  comes  into  our  thoughts, 
it  is  like  what  my  mother  has  been  to  me.  She 


278  DANIEL  DERONDA 


has  been  just  as  really  with  me  as  all  the 
other  people  about  me,  —  often  more  really 
with  me." 

Deronda,  inwardly  wincing  under  this  illus- 
tration, which  brought  other  possible  realities 
about  that  mother  vividly  before  him,  presently 
turned  the  conversation  by  saying :  "  But  we 
must  not  get  too  far  away  from  practical  mat- 
ters. I  came,  for  one  thing,  to  tell  of  an  inter- 
view I  had  yesterday,  which  I  hope  Mirah  will 
find  to  have  been  useful  to  her.  It  was  with 
Klesmer,  the  great  pianist." 

"  Ah?  "  said  Mrs.  Meyrick,  with  satisfaction. 
"  You  think  he  will  help  her?  " 

"  I  hope  so.  He  is  very  much  occupied,  but 
has  promised  to  fix  a  time  for  receiving  and  hear- 
ing Miss  Lapidoth,  as  we  must  learn  to  call  her," 
—  here  Deronda  smiled  at  Mirah,  —  "  if  she 
consents  to  go  to  him." 

"  I  shall  be  very  grateful,"  said  Mirah,  calmly. 

He  wants  to  hear  me  sing,  before  he  can  judge 
whether  I  ought  to  be  helped." 

Deronda  was  struck  with  her  plain  sense  about 
these  matters  of  practical  concern. 

"  It  will  not  be  at  all  trying  to  you,  I  hope,  if 
Mrs.  Meyrick  will  kindly  go  with  you  to  Kles- 
mer's  house." 

"  Oh,  no,  not  at  all  trying.  I  have  been  doing 
that  all  my  life,  —  I  mean,  told  to  do  things  that 
others  may  judge  of  me.  And  I  have  gone 
through  a  bad  trial  of  that  sort.  I  am  prepared 
to  bear  it,  and  do  some  very  small  thing.  Is 
Klesmer  a  severe  man?  " 

"  He  is  peculiar,  but  I  have  not  had  experi- 
ence enough  of  him  to  know  whether  he  would 


MORDECAI 


279 


be  what  you  would  call  severe.  I  know  he  is 
kind-hearted,  —  kind  in  action,  if  not  in  speech." 

"  I  have  been  used  to  be  frowned  at  and  not 
praised,"  said  Mirah. 

"  By  the  by,  Klesmer  frowns  a  good  deal," 
said  Deronda,  "  but  there  is  often  a  sort  of  smile 
in  his  eyes  all  the  while.  Unhappily  he  wears 
spectacles,  so  you  must  catch  him  in  the  right 
light  to  see  the  smile." 

I  shall  not  be  frightened,"  said  Mirah.  "  If 
he  were  like  a  roaring  lion,  he  only  wants  me  to 
sing.    I  shall  do  what  I  can." 

"  Then  I  feel  sure  you  will  not  mind  being 
invited  to  sing  in  Lady  Mallinger's  drawing- 
room,"  said  Deronda.  "  She  intends  to  ask  you 
next  month,  and  will  imdte  many  ladies  to  hear 
you,  who  are  likely  to  want  lessons  from  you  for 
their  daughters." 

"  How  fast  we  are  mounting! "  said  Mrs. 
Meyrick,  with  delight.  "  You  never  thought  of 
getting  grand  so  quickly,  Mirah." 

"  I  am  a  little  frightened  at  being  called  Miss 
Lapidoth,"  said  Mirah,  colouring  with  a  new 
unea;siness.    "  Might  I  be  called  Cohen?  " 

I  understand  you,"  said  Deronda,  promptly. 
"  But,  I  assure  you,  you  must  not  be  called 
Cohen.  The  name  is  inadmissible  for  a  singer. 
This  is  one  of  the  trifles  in  which  we  must  con- 
form to  vulgar  prejudice.  We  could  choose 
some  other  name,  however,  —  such  as  singers 
ordinarily  choose,  —  an  Italian  or  Spanish  name, 
which  would  suit  your  physique T 

To  Deronda  just  now  the  name  Cohen  was 
equivalent  to  the  ugliest  of  yellow  badges. 

Mirah  reflected  a  little,  anxiously,  then  said: 


280  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  No.  If  Cohen  will  not  do,  I  will  keep  the  name 
I  have  been  called  by.  I  will  not  hide  myself. 
I  have  friends  to  protect  me.  And  now,  —  if  my 
father  were  very  miserable  and  wanted  help,  — 
no,"  she  said,  looking  at  Mrs.  Meyrick,  "I 
should  think  then,  that  he  was  perhaps  crying 
as  I  used  to  see  him,  and  had  nobody  to  pity  him, 
and  I  had  hidden  myself  from  him.  He  had 
none  belonging  to  him  but  me.  Others  that 
made  friends  with  him  always  left  him." 

"  Keep  to  what  you  feel  right,  my  dear  child," 
said  Mrs.  Meyrick.  "  I  would  not  persuade  you 
to  the  contrary."  For  her  own  part  she  had  no 
patience  or  pity  for  that  father,  and  would  have 
left  him  to  his  crying. 

Deronda  was  saying  to  himself,  "  I  am  rather 
base  to  be  angry  with  Hans.  How  can  he  help 
being  in  love  with  her?  But  it  is  too  absurdly 
presumptuous  for  him  even  to  frame  the  idea 
of  appropriating  her,  and  a  sort  of  blasphemy 
to  suppose  that  she  could  possibly  give  herself 
to  him." 

What  would  it  be  for  Daniel  Deronda  to  en- 
tertain such  thoughts?  He  was  not  one  who 
could  quite  naively  introduce  himself  where  he 
had  just  excluded  his  friend,  yet  it  was  undeni- 
able that  what  had  just  happened  made  a  new 
stage  in  his  feeling  towards  Mirah.  But  apart 
from  other  grounds  for  self -repression,  reasons 
both  definite  and  vague  made  him  shut  away  that 
question  as  he  might  have  shut  up  a  half-opened 
writing  that  would  have  carried  his  imagination 
too  far  and  given  too  much  shape  to  presenti- 
ments. Might  there  not  come  a  disclosure  which 
would  hold  the  missing  determination  of  his 


MORDECAI 


281 


course?  What  did  he  really  know  about  his 
origin?  Strangely  in  these  latter  months  when 
it  seemed  right  that  he  should  exert  his  will  in 
the  choice  of  a  destination,  the  passion  of  his 
nature  had  got  more  and  more  locked  by  this 
uncertainty.  The  disclosure  might  bring  its 
pain,  indeed  the  likelihood  seemed  to  him  to  be 
all  on  that  side ;  but  if  it  helped  him  to  make  his 
life  a  sequence  which  would  take  the  form  of 
duty,  —  if  it  saved  him  from  having  to  make  an 
arbitrary  selection  where  he  felt  no  preponder- 
ance of  desire?  Still  more  he  wanted  to  escape 
standing  as  a  critic  outside  the  activities  of  men, 
stiffened  into  the  ridiculous  attitude  of  self- 
assigned  superiority.  His  chief  tether  was  his 
early  inwrought  affection  for  Sir  Hugo,  making 
him  gratefully  deferential  to  wishes  with  which 
he  had  little  agreement ;  but  gratitude  had  been 
sometimes  disturbed  by  doubts  which  were  near 
reducing  it  to  a  fear  of  being  ungrateful.  Many 
of  us  complain  that  half  our  birthright  is  sharp 
duty:  Deronda  was  more  inclined  to  complain 
that  he  was  robbed  of  this  half;  yet  he  accused 
himself,  as  he  would  have  accused  another,  of 
being  weakly  self-conscious  and  wanting  in  re- 
solve. He  was  the  reverse  of  that  type  painted 
for  us  in  Faulconbridge  and  Edmund  of  Gloster, 
whose  coarse  ambition  for  personal  success  is  in- 
flamed by  a  defiance  of  accidental  disadvantages. 
To  Daniel  the  words  Father  and  Mother  had  the 
altar-fire  in  them ;  and  the  thought  of  all  closest 
relations  of  our  nature  held  still  something  of 
the  mystic  power  which  had  made  his  neck  and 
ears  burn  in  boyhood.  The  average  man  may 
regard  this  sensibility  on  the  question  of  birth  as 


282  DANIEL  DERONDA 


preposterous  and  hardly  credible;  but  with  the 
utmost  respect  for  his  knowledge  as  the  rock 
from  which  all  other  knowledge  is  hewn,  it  must 
be  admitted  that  many  well-proved  facts  are 
dark  to  the  average  man,  even  concerning  the 
action  of  his  own  heart  and  the  structure  of  his 
own  retina.  A  century  ago  he  and  all  his  fore- 
fathers had  not  had  the  slightest  notion  of  that 
electric  discharge  by  means  of  which  they  had  all 
wagged  their  tongues  mistakenly;  any  more 
than  they  were  awake  to  the  secluded  anguish 
of  exceptional  sensitiveness  into  which  many  a 
carelessly  begotten  child  of  man  is  born. 

Perhaps  the  ferment  was  all  the  stronger  in 
Deronda's  mind  because  he  had  never  had  a  con- 
fidant to  whom  he  could  open  himself  on  these 
delicate  subjects.  He  had  always  been  leaned 
on  instead  of  being  invited  to  lean.  Sometimes 
he  had  longed  for  the  sort  of  friend  to  whom  he 
might  possibly  unfold  his  experience:  a  young 
man  like  himself  who  sustained  a  private  grief 
and  was  not  too  confident  about  his  own  career; 
speculative  enough  to  understand  every  moral 
difficulty,  yet  socially  susceptible,  as  he  himself 
was,  and  having  every  outward  sign  of  equality 
either  in  bodily  or  spiritual  wrestling,  —  for  he 
had  found  it  impossible  to  reciprocate  confi- 
dences with  one  who  looked  up  to  him.  But  he 
had  no  expectation  of  meeting  the  friend  he  im- 
agined. Deronda's  was  not  one  of  those  quiver- 
ingly  poised  natures  that  lend  themselves  to 
second-sight. 


CHAPTER  IV 


"There  be  who  hold  that  the  deeper  tragedy  were  a  Prometheus 
Bound  not  after  but  before  he  had  well  got  the  celestial  fire  into  the 
vdpdr)^  whereby  it  might  be  conveyed  to  mortals :  thrust  by  the  Kratos 
and  Bia  of  instituted  methods  into  a  solitude  of  despised  ideas,  fastened 
in  throbbing  helplessness  by  the  fatal  pressure  of  poverty  and  disease,  — 
a  sohtude  where  many  pass  by,  but  none  regard." 

SECOND-SIGHT  "  is  a  flag  over  dis- 
puted ground.  But  it  is  matter  of 
knowledge  that  there  are  persons  whose 
yearnings,  conceptions,  —  nay,  travelled  con- 
clusions, —  continually  take  the  form  of  images 
which  have  a  foreshadowing  power:  the  deed 
they  would  do  starts  up  before  them  in  complete 
shape,  making  a  coercive  type;  the  event  they 
hunger  for  or  dread  rises  into  vision  with  a  seed- 
like growth,  feeding  itself  fast  on  unnumbered 
impressions.  They  are  not  always  the  less  ca- 
pable of  the  argumentative  process,  nor  less  sane 
than  the  commonplace  calculators  of  the  market : 
sometimes  it  may  be  that  their  natures  have  man- 
ifold openings,  like  the  hundred-gated  Thebes, 
where  there  may  naturally  be  a  greater  and  more 
miscellaneous  inrush  than  through  a  narrow 
beadle-watched  portal.  No  doubt  there  are  ab- 
ject specimens  of  the  visionary,  as  there  is  a 
minim  mammal  which  you  might  imprison  in  the 
finger  of  your  glove.  That  small  relative  of  the 
elephant  has  no  harm  in  him;  but  what  great 
mental  or  social  type  is  free  from  specimens 
whose  insignificance  is  both  ugly  and  noxious? 
One  is  afraid  to  think  of  all  that  the  genus  pa- 
triot "  embraces;  or  of  the  elbowing  there  might 


284  DANIEL  DERONDA 


be  at  the  day  of  judgment  for  those  who  ranked  » 
as  authors,  and  brought  volumes  either  in  their 
hands  or  on  trucks. 

This  apology  for  inevitable  kinship  is  meant 
to  usher  in  some  facts  about  Mordecai,  whose 
figure  had  bitten  itself  into  Deronda's  mind  as 
a  new  question  which  he  felt  an  interest  in  getting 
answered.  But  the  interest  was  no  more  than  a 
vaguely  expectant  suspense:  the  consumptive- 
looking  Jew,  apparently  a  fervid  student  of  some 
kind,  getting  his  crust  by  a  quiet  handicraft, 
like  Spinoza,  fitted  into  none  of  Deronda's 
anticipations. 

It  was  otherwise  with  the  effect  of  their  meet- 
ing on  Mordecai.  For  many  winters,  while  he 
had  been  conscious  of  an  ebbing  physical  life  and 
a  widening  spiritual  loneliness,  all  his  passionate 
desire  had  concentred  itself  in  the  yearning  for 
some  young  ear  into  which  he  could  pour  his 
mind  as  a  testament,  some  soul  kindred  enough 
to  accept  the  spiritual  product  of  his  own  brief, 
painful  life,  as  a  mission  to  be  executed.  It  was 
remarkable  that  the  hopefulness  which  is  often 
the  beneficent  illusion  of  consumptive  patients, 
was  in  Mordecai  wholly  diverted  from  the  pros- 
pect of  bodily  recovery  and  carried  into  the  cur- 
rent of  this  yearning  for  transmission.  The 
yearning,  which  had  panted  upward  from  out  of 
overwhelming  discouragements,  had  grown  into 
a  hope,  —  the  hope  into  a  confident  belief,  which, 
instead  of  being  checked  by  the  clear  conception 
he  had  of  his  hastening  decline,  took  rather  the 
intensity  of  expectant  faith  in  a  prophecy  which 
has  only  brief  space  to  get  fulfilled  in. 

Some  years  had  now  gone  since  he  had  first 


MORDECAI 


285 


begun  to  measure  men  with  a  keen  glance  search- 
ing for  a  possibihty  which  became  more  and 
more  a  distinct  conception.  Such  distinctness  as 
it  had  at  first  was  reached  chiefly  by  a  method  of 
contrast :  he  wanted  to  find  a  man  who  differed 
from  himself.  Tracing  reasons  in  that  self  for 
the  rebuffs  he  had  met  with  and  the  hindrances 
that  beset  him,  he  imagined  a  man  who  would 
have  all  the  elements  necessary  for  sympathy 
with  him,  but  in  an  embodiment  unlike  his  own  : 
he  must  be  a  Jew,  intellectually  cultured,  mor- 
ally fervid  —  in  all  this  a  nature  ready  to  be 
plenished  from  Mordecai's;  but  his  face  and 
frame  must  be  beautiful  and  strong,  he  must 
have  been  used  to  all  the  refinements  of  social 
life,  his  voice  must  flow  mth  a  full  and  easy 
current,  his  circumstances  be  free  from  sordid 
need;  he  must  glorify  the  possibilities  of  the  Jew, 
not  sit  and  wander  as  Mordecai  did,  bearing  the 
stamp  of  his  people  amid  the  signs  of  poverty 
and  waning  breath.  Sensitive  to  physical,  char- 
acteristics, he  had,  both  abroad  and  in  England, 
looked  at  pictures  as  well  as  men,  and  in  a  vacant 
hour  he  had  sometimes  lingered  in  the  National 
Gallery  in  search  of  paintings  which  might  feed 
his  hopefulness  with  grave  and  noble  types  of  the 
human  form,  such  as  might  well  belong  to  men 
of  his  own  race.  But  he  returned  in  disappoint- 
ment. The  instances  are  scattered  but  thinly 
over  the  galleries  of  Europe,  in  which  the  fortune 
or  selection  even  of  the  chief  masters  has  given 
to  Art  a  face  at  once  young,  grand,  and  beauti- 
ful, where,  if  there  is  any  melancholy,  it  is  no 
feeble  passivity,  but  enters  into  the  foreshadowed 
capability  of  heroism. 


286  DANIEL  DERONDA 


Some  observant  persons  may  perhaps  remem- 
ber his  emaciated  figure,  and  dark  eyes  deep  in 
their  sockets,  as  he  stood  in  front  of  a  picture 
that  had  touched  him  either  to  new  or  habitual 
meditation :  he  commonly  wore  a  cloth  cap  with 
black  fur  round  it,  which  no  painter  would  have 
asked  him  to  take  off.  But  spectators  would  be 
likely  to  think  of  him  as  an  odd-looking  Jew, 
who  probably  got  money  out  of  pictures;  and 
Mordecai,  when  he  noticed  them,  was  perfectly 
aware  of  the  impression  he  made.  Experience 
had  rendered  him  morbidly  alive  to  the  effect  of 
a  man's  poverty  and  other  physical  disadvan- 
tages in  cheapening  his  ideas,  unless  they  are 
those  of  a  Peter  the  Hermit  who  has  a  tocsin  for 
the  rabble.  But  he  was  too  sane  and  generous 
to  attribute  his  spiritual  banishment  solely  to  the 
excusable  prejudices  of  others:  certain  inca- 
pacities of  his  own  had  made  the  sentence  of  ex- 
clusion; and,  hence  it  was  that  his  imagination 
had  constructed  another  man  who  would  be 
something  more  ample  than  the  second  soul  be- 
stowed, according  to  the  notion  of  the  Cabalists, 
to  help  out  the  insufficient  first,  —  who  would 
be  a  blooming  human  life,  ready  to  incorporate 
all  that  was  worthiest  in  an  existence  whose  vis- 
ible, palpable  part  was  burning  itself  fast  away. 
His  inward  need  for  the  conception  of  this  ex- 
panded, prolonged  self  was  reflected  as  an  out- 
ward necessity.  The  thoughts  of  his  heart  (that 
ancient  phrase  best  shadows  the  truth)  seemed 
to  him  too  precious,  too  closely  inwoven  with  the 
growth  of  things  not  to  have  a  further  destiny. 
And  as  the  more  beautiful,  the  stronger,  the 
more  executive  self  took  shape  in  his  mind,  he 


MORDECAI 


287 


loved  it  beforehand  with  an  affection  half  iden- 
tifying, half  contemplative  and  grateful. 

Mordecai's  mind  wrought  so  constantly  in 
images,  that  his  coherent  trains  of  thought  often 
resembled  the  significant  dreams  attributed  to 
sleepers  by  waking  persons  in  their  most  inven- 
tive moments;  nay,  they  often  resembled  gen- 
uine dreams  in  their  way  of  breaking  off  the 
passage  from  the  known  to  the  unknown.  Thus, 
for  a  long  while,  he  habitually  thought  of  the 
Being  answering  to  his  need  as  one  distantly 
approaching  or  turning  his  back  towards  him, 
darkly  painted  against  a  golden  sky.  The  rea- 
son of  the  golden  sky  lay  in  one  of  Mordecai's 
habits.  He  was  keenly  alive  to  some  poetic 
aspects  of  London;  and  a  favourite  resort  of 
his,  when  strength  and  leisure  allowed,  was  to 
some  one  of  the  bridges,  especially  about  sunrise 
or  sunset.  Even  when  he  was  bending  over 
watch-wheels  and  trinkets,  or  seated  in  a  small 
upper  room  looking  out  on  dingy  bricks  and 
dingy  cracked  windows,  his  imagination  sponta- 
neously planted  him  on  some  spot  where  he  had 
a  far-stretching  scene;  his  thought  went  on  in 
wide  spaces ;  and  whenever  he  could,  he  tried  to 
have  in  reality  the  influences  of  a  large  sky. 
Leaning  on  the  parapet  of  Blackfriars  Bridge, 
and  gazing  meditatively,  the  breadth  and  calm 
of  the  river,  with  its  long  vista  half  hazy,  half 
luminous,  the  grand  dim  masses  or  tall  forms  of 
buildings  which  were  the  signs  of  world-com- 
merce, the  oncoming  of  boats  and  barges  from 
the  still  distance  into  sound  and  colour,  entered 
into  his  mood  and  blent  themselves  indistinguish- 
ably  with  his  thinking,  as  a  fine  symphony  to 


288  DANIEL  DERONDA 


which  we  can  hardly  be  said  to  Hsten  makes  a 
medium  that  bears  up  our  spiritual  wings.  Thus 
it  happened  that  the  figure  representative  of 
Mordecai's  longing  was  mentally  seen  darkened 
by  the  excess  of  light  in  the  aerial  background. 
But  in  the  inevitable  progress  of  his  imagina- 
tion towards  fuller  detail,  he  ceased  to  see  the 
figure  with  its  back  towards  him.  It  began  to 
advance,  and  a  face  became  discernible;  the 
words  youth,  beauty,  refinement,  Jewish  birth, 
noble  gravity,  turned  into  hardly  individual  but 
typical  form  and  colour:  gathered  from  his 
memory  of  faces  seen  among  the  Jews  of  Hol- 
land and  Bohemia,  and  from  the  paintings  which 
revived  that  memory.  Reverently  let  it  be  said 
of  this  mature  spiritual  need  that  it  was  akin  to 
the  boy's  and  girl's  picturing  of  the  future  be- 
loved ;  but  the  stirrings  of  such  young  desire  are 
feeble  compared  with  the  passionate  current  of 
an  ideal  life  straining  to  embody  itself,  made  in- 
tense by  resistance  to  imminent  dissolution.  The 
visionary  form  became  a  companion  and  auditor; 
keeping  a  place  not  only  in  the  waking  imagina- 
tion, but  in  those  dreams  of  lighter  slumber  of 
which  it  is  truest  to  say,  "  I  sleep,  but  my  heart 
waketh  "  —  when  the  disturbing  trivial  story  of 
yesterday  is  charged,  with  the  impassioned  pur- 
pose of  years. 

Of  late  the  urgency  of  irredeemable  time, 
measured  by  the  gradual  choking  of  life,  had 
turned  Mordecai's  trust  into  an  agitated  watch 
for  the  fulfilment  that  must  be  at  hand.  Was 
the  bell  on  the  verge  of  tolling,  the  sentence 
about  to  be  executed?  The  deliverer's  footstep 
must  be  near,  —  the  deliverer  who  was  to  rescue 


MORDECAI 


289 


Mordecai's  spiritual  travail  from  oblivion,  and 
give  it  an  abiding  place  in  the  best  heritage  of 
his  people.  An  insane  exaggeration  of  his  own 
value,  even  if  his  ideas  had  been  as  true  and 
precious  as  those  of  Columbus  or  Newton,  many 
would  have  counted  this  yearning,  taking  it  as 
the  sublimer  part  for  a  man  to  say,  "  If  not  I, 
then  another,"  and  to  hold  cheap  the  meaning 
of  his  own  life.  But  the  fuller  nature  desires  to 
be  an  agent,  to  create,  and  not  merely  to  look  on : 
strong  love  hungers  to  bless,  and  not  merely  to 
behold  blessing.  And  while  there  is  warmth 
enough  in  the  sun  to  feed  an  energetic  life, 
there  will  still  be  men  to  feel,  "  I  am  lord  of 
this  moment's  change,  and  will  charge  it  with 
my  soul." 

But  with  that  mingling  of  inconsequence 
which  belongs  to  us  all,  and  not  unhappily, 
since  it  saves  us  from  many  effects  of  mistake, 
Mordecai's  confidence  in  the  friend  to  come  did 
not  suffice  to  make  him  passive,  and  he  tried 
expedients,  pathetically  humble,  such  as  hap- 
pened to  be  within  his  reach,  for  communicating 
something  of  himself.  It  was  now  two  years 
since  he  had  taken  up  his  abode  under  Ezra 
Cohen's  roof,  where  he  was  regarded  with  much 
good-will  as  a  compound  of  workman,  dominie, 
vessel  of  charity,  inspired  idiot,  man  of  piety, 
and  (if  he  were  inquired  into)  dangerous  heretic. 
During  that  time  little  Jacob  had  advanced  into 
knickerbockers,  and  into  that  quickness  of  ap- 
prehension which  has  been  already  made  mani- 
fest in  relation  to  hardware  and  exchange.  He 
had  also  advanced  in  attachment  to  Mordecai, 
regarding  him  as  an  inferior,  but  liking  him 

VOL.  XIII  19 


290  DANIEL  DERONDA 


none  the  worse,  and  taking  his  helpful  clever- 
ness as  he  might  have  taken  the  services  of  an 
enslaved  Djinn.  As  for  Mordecai,  he  had  given 
Jacob  his  first  lessons,  and  his  habitual  tender- 
ness easily  turned  into  the  teacher's  fatherhood. 
Though  he  was  fully  conscious  of  the  spiritual 
distance  between  the  parents  and  himself,  and 
would  never  have  attempted  any  conmiunication 
to  them  from  his  peculiar  world,  the  boy  moved 
him  with  that  idealizing  affection  which  merges 
the  qualities  of  the  individual  child  in  the  glory 
of  childhood  and  the  possibilities  of  a  long  future. 
And  this  feeling  had  drawn  him  on,  at  first 
without  premeditation,  and  afterwards  with  con- 
scious purpose,  to  a  sort  of  outpouring  in  the 
ear  of  the  boy  which  might  have  seemed  wild 
enough  to  any  excellent  man  of  business  who 
overheard  it.  But  none  overheard  when  Jacob 
went  up  to  Mordecai's  room  on  a  day,  for  ex- 
ample, in  which  there  was  little  work  to  be  done, 
or  at  an  hour  when  the  work  was  ended,  and 
after  a  brief  lesson  in  English  reading  or  in 
numeration,  was  induced  to  remain  standing  at 
his  teacher's  knees,  or  chose  to  jump  astride 
them,  often  to  the  patient  fatigue  of  the  wasted 
limbs.  The  inducement  was  perhaps  the  mend- 
ing of  a  toy,  or  some  little  mechanical  device  in 
which  Mordecai's  well-practised  finger-tips  had 
an  exceptional  skill;  and  with  the  boy  thus 
tethered,  he  would  begin  to  repeat  a  Hebrew 
poem  of  his  own,  into  which  years  before  he 
jhad  poured  his  first  youthful  ardours  for  that 
conception  of  a  blended  past  and  future  which 
was  the  mistress  of  his  soul,  telling  Jacob  to 
say  the  words  after  him. 


MORDECAI 


291 


"  The  boy  will  get  them  engraved  within  him," 
thought  Mordecai;  "it  is  a  way  of  printing." 

None  readier  than  Jacob  at  this  fascinating 
game  of  imitating  unintelligible  words;  and  if 
no  opposing  diversion  occurred,  he  would  some- 
times carry  on  his  share  in  it  as  long  as  the 
teacher's  breath  would  last  out.  For  Mordecai 
threw  into  each  repetition  the  fervour  befitting 
a  sacred  occasion.  In  such  instances  Jacob 
would  show  no  other  distraction  than  reaching 
out  and  surveying  the  contents  of  his  pockets; 
or  drawing  down  the  skin  of  his  cheeks  to  make 
his  eyes  look  awful,  and  rolling  his  head  to 
complete  the  effect;  or  alternately  handling  his 
own  nose  and  Mordecai's,  as  if  to  test  the  rela- 
tion of  their  masses.  Under  all  this  the  fervid 
reciter  would  not  pause,  satisfied  if  the  young 
organs  of  speech  would  submit  themselves.  But 
most  commonly  a  sudden  impulse  sent  Jacob 
leaping  away  into  some  antic  or  active  anmse- 
ment,  when,  instead  of  following  the  recitation, 
he  would  return  upon  the  foregoing  words  most 
ready  to  his  tongue,  and  mouth  or  gabble,  with 
a  see-saw  suited  to  the  action  of  his  limbs,  a 
verse  on  which  Mordecai  had  spent  some  of  his 
too  scanty  heart's  blood.  Yet  he  waited  with 
such  patience  as  a  prophet  needs,  and  began  his 
strange  printing  again  undiscouraged  on  the 
morrow,  saying  inwardly,  — 

"  My  words  may  rule  him  some  day.  Their 
meaning  may  flash  out  on  him.  It  is  so  with 
a  nation,  —  after  many  days." 

Meanwhile  Jacob's  sense  of  power  was  in- 
creased and  his  time  enlivened  by  a  store  of 
magical  articulation  with  which  he  made  the 


292  DANIEL  DERONDA 


baby  crow,  or  drove  the  large  cat  into  a  dark 
corner,  or  promised  himself  to  frighten  any  in- 
cidental Christian  of  his  own  years.  One  week 
he  had  unfortunately  seen  a  street  mountebank, 
and  this  carried  off  his  muscular  imitativeness 
in  sad  divergence  from  New  Hebrew  poetry 
after  the  model  of  Jehuda  ha-Levi.  Mordecai 
had  arrived  at  a  fresh  passage  in  his  poem;  for 
as  soon  as  Jacob  had  got  well  used  to  one  por- 
tion, he  was  led  on  to  another,  and  a  fresh  com- 
bination of  sounds  generally  answered  better  in 
keeping  him  fast  for  a  few  minutes.  The  con- 
sumptive voice,  originally  a  strong  high  bary- 
tone with  its  variously  mingling  hoarseness,  like 
a  haze  amidst  illuminations,  and  its  occasional 
incipient  gasp,  had  more  than  the  usual  excite- 
ment, while  it  gave  forth  Hebrew  verses  with 
a  meaning  something  like  this :  — 

"Away  from  me  the  garment  of  forgetfulness, 
Withering  the  heart; 

The  oil  and  wine  from  presses  of  the  Goyim, 
Poisoned  with  scorn. 
SoUtude  is  on  the  sides  of  Mount  Nebo, 
In  its  heart  a  tomb: 

There  the  buried  ark  and  golden  cherubim 
Make  hidden  light: 

There  the  solemn  faces  gaze  unchanged, 
The  wings  are  spread  unbroken: 
Shut  beneath  in  silent  awful  speech 
The  Law  lies  graven. 
Solitude  and  darkness  are  my  covering, 
And  my  heart  a  tomb ; 
Smite  and  shatter  it,  O  Gabriel ! 
Shatter  it  as  the  clay  of  the  founder 
'    Around  the  golden  image." 

In  the  absorbing  enthusiasm  with  which  Mor- 
decai had  intoned  rather  than  spoken  this  last 
invocation,  he  was  unconscious  that  Jacob  had 
ceased  to  follow  him  and  had  started  away  from 


MORDECAI 


293 


his  knees;  but  pausing  he  saw,  as  by  a  sudden 
flash,  that  the  lad  had  thrown  himself  on  his 
hands  with  his  feet  in  the  air,  mountebank 
fashion,  and  was  picking  up  with  his  lips  a 
bright  farthing  which  was  a  favourite  among 
his  pocket  treasures.  This  might  have  been  reck- 
oned among  the  tricks  Mordecai  was  used  to,  but 
at  this  moment  it  jarred  him  horribly,  as  if  it  had 
been  a  Satanic  grin  upon  his  prayer. 

"  Child!  child!  "  he  called  out  with  a  strange 
cry  that  startled  Jacob  to  his  feet,  and  then  he 
sank  backward  with  a  shudder,  closing  his  eyes. 

"What?"  said  Jacob,  quickly.  Then  not 
getting  an  immediate  answer,  he  pressed  Mor- 
decai's  knees  with  a  shaking  movement,  in  order 
to  rouse  him.  Mordecai  opened  his  eyes  with 
a  fierce  expression  in  them,  leaned  forward, 
grasped  the  little  shoulders,  and  said  in  a  quick, 
hoarse  whisper,  — 

"  A  curse  is  on  your  generation,  child.  They 
will  open  the  mountain  and  drag  forth  the  golden 
wings  and  coin  them  into  money,  and  the  sol- 
emn faces  they  will  break  up  into  earrings  for 
wanton  women !  And  they  shall  get  themselves 
a  new  name,  but  the  angel  of  ignominy,  with 
the  fiery  brand,  shall  know  them,  and  their  heart 
shall  be  the  tomb  of  dead  desires  that  turn  their 
life  to  rottenness." 

The  aspect  and  action  of  Mordecai  were  so 
new  and  mysterious  to  Jacob  —  they  carried 
such  a  burthen  of  obscure  threat  —  it  was  as  if 
the  patient,  indulgent  companion  had  turned 
into  something  unknown  and  terrific :  the  sunken 
dark  eyes  and  hoarse  accents  close  to  him,  the 
thin  grappling  fingers,  shook  Jacob's  little  frame 


294  DANIEL  DERONDA 


into  awe,  and  while  Mordecai  was  speaking  he 
stood  trembling  with  a  sense  that  the  house  was 
tumbling  in  and  they  were  not  going  to  have 
dinner  any  more.  But  when  the  terrible  speech 
had  ended  and  the  pinch  was  relaxed,  the  shock 
resolved  itself  into  tears;  Jacob  lifted  up  his 
small  patriarchal  countenance  and  wept  aloud. 
This  sign  of  childish  grief  at  once  recalled  Mor- 
decai to  his  usual  gentle  self:  he  was  not  able 
to  speak  again  at  present,  but  with  a  maternal 
action  he  drew  the  curly  head  towards  him  and 
pressed  it  tenderly  against  his  breast.  On  this 
Jacob,  feeling  the  danger  well-nigh  over,  howled 
at  ease,  beginning  to  imitate  his  own  perform- 
ance and  improve  upon  it,  —  a  sort  of  transition 
from  impulse  into  art  often  observable.  Indeed, 
the  next  day  he  undertook  to  terrify  Adelaide 
Rebekah  in  like  manner,  and  succeeded  very  well. 

But  Mordecai  suffered  a  check  which  lasted 
long,  from  the  consciousness  of  a  misapplied 
agitation;  sane  as  well  as  excitable,  he  judged 
severely  his  moments  of  aberration  into  futile 
eagerness,  and  felt  discredited  with  himself.  All 
the  more  his  mind  was  strained  towards  the  dis- 
cernment of  that  friend  to  come,  with  whom  he 
would  have  a  calm  certainty  of  fellowship  and 
understanding. 

It  was  just  then  that,  in  his  usual  mid-day 
guardianship  of  the  old  book-shop,  he  was  struck 
by  the  appearance  of  Deronda,  and  it  is  perhaps 
comprehensible  now  why  Mordecai's  glance  took 
on  a  sudden  eager  interest  as  he  looked  at  the 
new-comer:  he  saw  a  face  and  frame  which 
seemed  to  him  to  realize  the  long-conceived  type. 
But  the  disclaimer  of  Jewish  birth  was  for  the 


MORDECAI 


295 


moment  a  backward  thrust  of  double  severity, 
the  particular  disappointment  tending  to  shake 
his  confidence  in  the  more  indefinite  expectation. 
Nevertheless,  when  he  found  Deronda  seated  at 
the  Cohens'  table,  the  disclaimer  was  for  the 
moment  nullified:  the  first  impression  returned 
with  added  force,  seeming  to  be  guaranteed  by 
this  second  meeting  under  circumstances  more 
peculiar  than  the  former;  and  in  asking  De- 
ronda if  he  knew  Hebrew,  Mordecai  was  so 
possessed  by  the  new  inrush  of  belief,  that  he 
had  forgotten  the  absence  of  any  other  condi- 
tion to  the  fulfilment  of  his  hopes.  But  the 
answering  "  No  "  struck  them  all  down  again, 
and  the  frustration  was  more  painful  than  be- 
fore. After  turning  his  back  on  the  visitor  that 
Sabbath  evening,  Mordecai  went  through  days 
of  a  deep  discouragement,  like  that  of  men  on 
a  doomed  ship,  who,  having  strained  their  eyes 
after  a  sail,  and  beheld  it  with  rejoicing,  behold 
it  never  advance,  and  say,  Our  sick  eyes  make 
it."  But  the  long-contemplated  figure  had  come 
as  an  emotional  sequence  of  Mordecai's  firmest 
theoretic  convictions ;  it  had  been  wrought  from 
the  imagery  of  his  most  passionate  life;  and  it 
inevitably  reappeared,  —  reappeared  in  a  more 
specific  self -asserting  form  than  ever.  Deronda 
had  that  sort  of  resemblance  to  the  preconceived 
type  which  a  finely  individual  bust  or  portrait 
has  to  the  more  generalized  copy  left  in  our 
minds  after  a  long  interval:  we  renew  our 
memory  with  delight,  but  we  hardly  know  with 
how  much  correction.  And  now  his  face  met 
Mordecai's  inward  gaze  as  if  it  had  always  be- 
longed to  the  awaited  friend,  raying  out,  more- 


296         DANIEL  DERONDA 


over,  some  of  that  influence  which  belongs  to 
breathing  flesh;  till  by  and  by  it  seemed  that 
discouragement  had  turned  into  a  new  obsti- 
nacy of  resistance,  and  the  ever-recurrent  vision 
had  the  force  of  an  outward  call  to  disregard 
counter-evidence,  and  keep  expectation  awake. 
It  was  Deronda  now  who  was  seen  in  the  often 
painful  night-watches,  when  we  are  all  liable  to 
be  held  with  the  clutch  of  a  single  thought,  — 
whose  figure,  never  with  its  back  turned,  was 
seen  in  moments  of  soothed  reverie  or  soothed 
dozing,  painted  on  that  golden  sky  which  was 
the  doubly  blessed  symbol  of  advancing  day 
and  of  approaching  rest. 

Mordecai  knew  that  the  nameless  stranger 
was  to  come  and  redeem  his  ring;  and  in  spite 
of  contrary  chances,  the  wish  to  see  him  again 
was  growing  into  a  belief  that  he  should  see 
him.  In  the  January  weeks,  he  felt  an  increas- 
ing agitation  of  that  subdued  hidden  quality 
which  hinders  nervous  people  from  any  steady 
occupation  on  the  eve  of  an  anticipated  change. 
He  could  not  go  on  with  his  printing  of  He- 
brew on  little  Jacob's  mind;  or  with  his  attend- 
ance at  a  weekly  club,  which  was  another  effort 
of  the  same  forlorn  hope:  something  else  was 
coming.  The  one  thing  he  longed  for  was  to 
get  as  far  as  the  river,  which  he  could  do  but 
seldom  and  with  difliculty.  He  yearned  with 
a  poet's  yearning  for  the  wide  sky,  the  far- 
reaching  vista  of  bridges,  the  tender  and  fluc- 
tuating lights  on  the  water  which  seems  to 
breathe  with  a  life  that  can  shiver  and  mourn, 
be  comforted  and  rejoice. 


CHAPTER  V 


Vor  den  Wissenden  sich  stellen 
Sicher  ist 's  in  alien  Fallen ! 
Wenn  du  lange  dich  gequalet 
Weiss  er  gleich  wo  dir  es  fehlet; 
Auch  auf  Beifall  darfst  du  hoffen, 
Denn  er  weiss  wo  du 's  getroffen. 

Goethe:  West-ostlicher  Divan» 

MOMENTOUS  things  happened  to  De- 
ronda  the  very  evening  of  that  visit  to 
the  small  house  at  Chelsea,  when  there 
was  the  discussion  about  Mirah's  public  name. 
But  for  the  family  group  there,  what  appeared 
to  be  the  chief  sequence  connected  with  it  oc- 
curred two  days  afterwards.  About  four  o'clock 
wheels  paused  before  the  door,  and  there  came 
one  of  those  knocks  with  an  accompanying  ring 
which  serve  to  magnify  the  sense  of  social  ex- 
istence in  a  region  where  the  most  enlivening 
signals  are  usually  those  of  the  muffin-man.  All 
the  girls  were  at  home,  and  the  two  rooms  were 
thrown  together  to  make  space  for  Kate's  draw- 
ing, as  well  as  a  great  length  of  embroidery 
which  had  taken  the  place  of  the  satin  cushions, 
—  a  sort  of  piece  de  resistance  in  the  courses  of 
needlework,  taken  up  by  any  clever  fingers  that 
happened  to  be  at  liberty.  It  stretched  across 
the  front  room  picturesquely  enough,  Mrs.  Mey- 
rick  bending  over  it  at  one  corner,  Mab  in  the 
middle,  and  Amy  at  the  other  end.  Mirah, 
whose  performances  in  point  of  sewing  were 
on  the  makeshift  level  of  the  tailor-bird's,  her 


208         DANIEL  DERONDA 


education  in  that  branch  having  been  much 
neglected,  was  acting  as  reader  to  the  party, 
seated  on  a  camp-stool;  in  which  position  she 
also  served  Kate  as  model  for  a  titlepage  vign- 
ette, symbolizing  a  fair  public  absorbed  in  the 
successive  volumes  of  the  Family  Tea-table. 
She  was  giving  forth  with  charming  distinct- 
ness the  delightful  Essay  of  Elia,  "  The  Praise 
of  Chimney- Sweeps,"  and  all  were  smiling  over 
the  "  innocent  blacknesses,"  when  the  imposing 
knock  and  ring  called  their  thoughts  to  loftier 
spheres,  and  they  looked  up  in  wonderment. 

"  Dear  me!  "  said  Mrs.  Meyrick;  "  can  it  be 
Lady  Mallinger?  Is  there  a  grand  carriage, 
Amy?  " 

"  No,  —  only  a  handsome  cab.  It  must  be  a 
gentleman." 

"  The  Prime  Minister,  I  should  think,"  said 
Kate,  dryly.  "  Hans  says  the  greatest  man  in 
London  may  get  into  a  handsome  cab." 

"Oh,  oh,  oh!"  cried  Mab.  "Suppose  it 
should  be  Lord  Russell!" 

The  five  bright  faces  were  all  looking  amused 
when  the  old  maid-servant  bringing  in  a  card 
distractedly  left  the  parlour  door  open,  and 
there  was  seen  bowing  towards  Mrs.  Meyrick 
a  figure  quite  unlike  that  of  the  respected  Pre- 
mier, —  tall  and  physically  impressive  even  in 
his  kid  and  kerseymere,  with  massive  face, 
flamboyant  hair,  and  gold  spectacles:  in  fact, 
as  Mrs.  Meyrick  saw  from  the  card,  Julius 
Klesmer. 

Even  embarrassment  could  hardly  have  made 
the  "  little  mother  "  awkward,  but  quick  in  her 
perceptions  she  was  at  once  aware  of  the  situa- 


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tion,  and  felt  well  satisfied  that  the  great  per- 
sonage had  come  to  Mirah  instead  of  requiring 
her  to  come  to  him;  taking  it  as  a  sign  of  ac- 
tive interest.  But  when  he  entered,  the  rooms 
shrank  into  closets,  the  cottage  piano,  Mab 
thought,  seemed  a  ridiculous  toy,  and  the  entire 
family  existence  as  petty  and  private  as  an  es- 
tablishment of  mice  in  the  Tuileries.  Klesmer's 
personality,  especially  his  way  of  glancing  round 
him,  immediately  suggested  vast  areas  and  a 
multitudinous  audience,  and  probably  they  made 
the  usual  scenery  of  his  consciousness,  for  we 
all  of  us  carry  on  our  thinking  in  some  habitual 
locus  where  there  is  a  presence  of  other  souls, 
and  those  who  take  in  a  larger  sweep  than  their 
neighbours  are  apt  to  seem  mightily  vain  and 
affected.  Klesmer  was  vain,  but  not  more  so 
than  many  contemporaries  of  heavy  aspect, 
whose  vanity  leaps  out  and  startles  one  like  a 
spear  out  of  a  walking-stick;  as  to  his  carriage 
and  gestures,  these  were  as  natural  to  him  as 
the  length  of  his  fingers ;  and  the  rankest  affec- 
tation he  could  have  shown  would  have  been  to 
look  diffident  and  demure.  While  his  grandiose 
air  was  making  Mab  feel  herself  a  ridiculous  toy 
to  match  the  cottage  piano,  he  was  taking  in  the 
details  around  him  with  a  keen  and  thoroughly 
kind  sensibility.  He  remembered  a  home  no 
larger  than  this  on  the  outskirts  of  Bohemia; 
and  in  the  figurative  Bohemia  too  he  had  had 
large  acquaintance  with  the  variety  and  romance 
which  belong  to  small  incomes.  He  addressed 
Mrs.  Meyrick  with  the  utmost  deference. 

"  I  hope  I  have  not  taken  too  great  a  free- 
dom.   Being  in  the  neighbourhood,  I  ventured 


300  DANIEL  DERONDA 


to  save  time  by  calling.  Our  friend  Mr. 
Deronda  mentioned  to  me  an  understanding 
that  I  was  to  have  the  honour  of  becoming 
acquainted  with  a  young  lady  here,  —  Miss 
Lapidoth." 

Klesmer  had  really  discerned  Mirah  in  the 
first  moment  of  entering,  but  with  subtle  polite- 
ness he  looked  round  bowingly  at  the  three 
sisters,  as  if  he  were  uncertain  which  was  the 
young  lady  in  question. 

"  Those  are  my  daughters:  this  is  Miss  Lapi- 
doth," said  Mrs.  Meyrick,  waving  her  hand 
towards  Mirah. 

"  Ah,"  said  Klesmer,  in  a  tone  of  gratified 
expectation,  turning  a  radiant  smile  and  deep 
bow  to  Mirah,  who,  instead  of  being  in  the  least 
taken  by  surprise,  had  a  calm  pleasure  in  her 
face.  She  liked  the  look  of  Klesmer,  feeling 
sure  that  he  would  scold  her,  like  a  great  musi- 
cian and  a  kind  man. 

"  You  will  not  object  to  beginning  our  ac- 
quaintance by  singing  to  me,"  he  added,  aware 
that  they  would  all  be  relieved  by  getting  rid 
of  preliminaries. 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad.  It  is  good  of  you 
to  be  willing  to  listen  to  me,"  said  Mirah, 
moving  to  the  piano.  "  Shall  I  accompany 
myself? " 

"  By  all  means,"  said  Klesmer,  seating  him- 
self, at  Mrs.  Meyrick's  invitation,  where  he  could 
have  a  good  view  of  the  singer.  The  acute  little 
mother  would  not  have  acknowledged  the  weak- 
ness, but  she  really  said  to  herself,  "  He  will 
like  her  singing  better  if  he  sees  her." 

All  the  feminine  hearts  except  Mirah's  were 


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301 


beating  fast  with  anxiety,  thinking  Klesmer  ter- 
rific as  he  sat  with  his  listening  frown  on,  and 
only  daring  to  look  at  him  furtively.  If  he  did 
say  anything  severe,  it  would  be  so  hard  for 
them  all.  They  could  only  comfort  themselves 
with  thinking  that  Prince  Camaralzaman,  who 
had  heard  the  finest  things,  preferred  Mirah's 
singing  to  any  other:  also  she  appeared  to  be 
doing  her  very  best,  as  if  she  were  more  instead 
of  less  at  ease  than  usual. 

The  song  she  had  chosen  was  a  fine  setting 
of  some  words  selected  from  Leopardi's  grand 
Ode  to  Italy :  — 

"O  patria  mia,  vedo  le  mura  e  gli  archi 
E  le  colonne  e  i  simulaeri  e  rerme 
Torri  degli  avi  nostri "  — 

This  was  recitative;  then  followed,  — 

"Ma  la  gloria  non  vedo,"  — 

a  mournful  melody,  a  rhythmic  plaint.  After 
this  came  a  climax  of  devout  triumph,  —  pass- 
ing from  the  subdued  adoration  of  a  happy 
Andante  in  the  words,  — 

"Beatissimi  vol, 
Che  offriste  il  petto  alle  nemiche  lance 
Per  amor  di  costei  che  al  sol  vi  diede,"  — 

to  the  joyous  outburst  of  an  exultant  Allegro 
in  — 

"Oh  viva,  oh  viva: 
Beatissimi  voi 

Mentre  nel  mondo  si  favelli  o  seriva." 

When  she  had  ended,  Klesmer  said  after  a 
moment, 

"  That  is  Joseph  Leo's  music." 


302         DANIEL  DERONDA 


"Yes,  he  was  my  last  master,  —  at  Vienna: 
so  fierce  and  so  good,"  said  Mirah,  with  a  mel- 
ancholy smile.  "  He  prophesied  that  my  voice 
would  not  do  for  the  stage.  And  he  was  right." 

"  Continue,  if  you  please,"  said  Klesmer,  put- 
ting out  his  lips  and  shaking  his  long  fingers, 
while  he  went  on  with  a  smothered  articulation 
quite  unintelligible  to  the  audience. 

The  three  girls  detested  him  unanimously  for  , 
not  saying  one  word  of  praise.    Mrs.  Meyrick 
was  a  little  alarmed. 

Mirah,  simply  bent  on  doing  what  Klesmer 
desired,  and  imagining  that  he  would  now  like 
to  hear  her  sing  some  German,  went  through 
Prince  Radzivill's  music  to  Gretchen's  songs  in 
the  "  Faust,"  one  after  the  other,  without  any 
interrogatory  pause.  When  she  had  finished  he 
rose  and  walked  to  the  extremity  of  the  small 
space  at  command,  then  walked  back  to  the 
piano,  where  Mirah  had  risen  from  her  seat  and 
stood  looking  towards  him  with  her  little  hands 
crossed  before  her,  meekly  awaiting  judgment; 
then  with  a  sudden  unknitting  of  his  brow  and 
with  beaming  eyes,  he  put  out  his  hand  and 
said  abruptly,  "Let  us  shake  hands:  you  are 
a  musician." 

Mab  felt  herself  beginning  to  cry,  and  all  the 
three  girls  held  Klesmer  adorable.  Mrs.  Mey- 
rick took  a  long  breath. 

But  straightway  the  frown  came  again,  the 
long  hand,  back  uppermost,  was  stretched  out 
in  quite  a  different  sense  to  touch  with  finger- 
tip the  back  of  Mirah's,  and  with  protruded  lip 
he  said,  — 

"  Not  for  great  tasks.   No  high  roofs.  We 


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303 


are  no  skylarks.  We  must  be  modest."  Kles- 
mer  paused  here.  And  Mab  ceased  to  think  him 
adorable:  "  As  if  Mirah  had  shown  the  least  sign 
of  conceit!  " 

Mirah  was  silent,  knowing  that  there  was  a 
specific  opinion  to  be  waited  for,  and  Klesmer 
presently  went  on,  — 

"  I  would  not  advise  —  I  would  not  further 
your  singing  in  any  larger  space  than  a  private 
drawing-room.  But  you  will  do  there.  And 
here  in  London  that  is  one  of  the  best  careers 
open.  Lessons  will  follow.  Will  you  come 
and  sing  at  a  private  concert  at  my  house  on 
Wednesday?  " 

"  Oh,  I  shall  be  grateful,"  said  Mirah,  putting 
her  hands  together  devoutly.  "  I  would  rather 
get  my  bread  in  that  way  than  by  anything  more 
public.  I  will  try  to  improve.  What  should 
I  work  at  most?  " 

Klesmer  made  a  preliminary  answer  in  noises 
which  sounded  like  words  bitten  in  two  and  swal- 
lowed before  they  were  half  out,  shaking  his 
fingers  the  while,  before  he  said,  quite  distinctly, 
"  I  shall  introduce  you  to  Astorga ;  he  is  the 
foster-father  of  good  singing,  and  will  give  you 
advice."  Then  addressing  Mrs.  Meyrick,  he 
added,  "  Mrs.  Klesmer  will  call  before  Wednes- 
day, with  your  permission." 

"  We  shall  feel  that  to  be  a  great  kindness," 
said  Mrs.  Meyrick. 

"  You  will  sing  to  her,"  said  Klesmer,  turning 
again  to  Mirah.  "  She  is  a  thorough  musician, 
and  has  a  soul  with  more  ears  to  it  than  you  will 
often  get  in  a  musician.  Your  singing  will 
satisfy  her:  — 


304         DANIEL  DERONDA 


'Vor  den  Wissenden  sich  stellen:* 

you  know  the  rest?  " 

" '  Sicher  ist 's  in  alien  Fallen,' " 

said  Mirah,  promptly.  And  Klesmer,  saying 
"  Schon!"  put  out  his  hand  again  as  a  good- 
bye. 

He  had  certainly  chosen  the  most  delicate  way 
of  praising  Mirah,  and  the  Meyrick  girls  had 
now  given  him  all  their  esteem.  But  imagine 
Mab's  feeling  when,  suddenly  fixing  his  eyes  on 
her,  he  said  decisively,  "That  young  lady  is  musi- 
cal, I  see!  "  She  was  a  mere  blush  and  sense  of 
scorching. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mirah,  on  her  behalf.  "  And  she 
has  a  touch." 

"  Oh,  please,  Mirah,  —  a  scramble,  not  a 
touch,"  said  Mab,  in  anguish,  with  a  horrible  fear 
of  what  the  next  thing  might  be :  this  dreadfully 
divining  personage  — -  evidently  Satan  in  gray 
trousers  —  might  order  her  to  sit  down  to  the 
piano,  and  her  heart  was  like  molten  wax  in  the 
midst  of  her.  But  this  was  cheap  payment  for 
her  amazed  joy  when  Klesmer  said  benignantly, 
turning  to  Mrs.  Meyrick,  "  Will  she  like  to  ac- 
company Miss  Lapidoth  and  hear  the  music  on 
Wednesday? " 

"  There  could  hardly  be  a  greater  pleasure  for 
her,"  said  Mrs.  Meyrick.  "  She  will  be  most 
glad  and  grateful." 

Thereupon  Klesmer  bowed  round  to  the  three 
sisters  more  grandly  than  they  had  ever  been 
bowed  to  before.  Altogether  it  was  an  amusing 
picture,  —  the  little  room  with  so  much  of  its 
diagonal  taken  up  in  Klesmer's  magnificent 


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305 


bend  to  the  small  feminine  figures  like  images  a 
little  less  than  life-size,  the  grave  Holbein  faces 
on  the  walls,  as  many  as  were  not  otherwise  oc- 
cupied, looking  hard  at  this  stranger  who  by  his 
face  seemed  a  dignified  contemporary  of  their 
own,  but  whose  garments  seemed  a  deplorable 
mockery  of  the  human  form. 

Mrs.  Meyrick  could  not  help  going  out  of  the 
room  with  Klesmer  and  closing  the  door  behind 
her.  He  understood  her,  and  said  with  a  frown- 
ing nod:  "  She  will  do:  if  she  does  n't  attempt 
too  much  and  her  voice  holds  out,  she  can  make 
an  income.  I  know  that  is  the  great  point :  De- 
ronda  told  me.  You  are  taking  care  of  her.  She 
looks  like  a  good  girl." 

"  She  is  an  angel,"  said  the  warm-hearted 
woman. 

"No,"  said  Klesmer,  with  a  playful  nod; 
"  she  is  a  pretty  Jewess :  the  angels  must  not  get 
the  credit  of  her.  But  I  think  she  has  found  a 
guardian  angel,"  he  ended,  bowing  himself  out 
in  this  amiable  way. 

The  four  young  creatures  had  looked  at  each 
other  mutely  till  the  door  banged  and  Mrs.  Mey- 
rick re-entered.  Then  there  was  an  explosion. 
Mab  clapped  her  hands  and  danced  everywhere 
inconveniently ;  Mrs.  Meyrick  kissed  Mirah  and 
blessed  her;  Amy  said  emphatically,  "  We  can 
never  get  her  a  new  dress  before  Wednesday!  " 
and  Kate  exclaimed,  "  Thank  heaven,  my  table 
is  not  knocked  over!  " 

Mirah  had  reseated  herself  on  the  music-stool 
without  speaking,  and  the  tears  were  rolling 
down  her  cheeks  as  she  looked  at  her  friends. 

"Now,  now,  Mab!"  said  Mrs.  Meyrick; 

VOL.  XIII  —  20 


306  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  come  and  sit  down  reasonably  and  let  us 
talk." 

"  Yes,  let  us  talk,"  said  Mab,  cordially,  coming 
back  to  her  low  seat  and  caressing  her  knees.  "  I 
am  beginning  to  feel  large  again.  Hans  said  he 
was  coming  this  afternoon.  I  wish  he  had  been 
here  —  only  there  would  have  been  no  room  for 
him.   Mirah,  what  are  you  looking  sad  for?  " 

"  I  am  too  happy,"  said  Mirah.  "  I  feel  so 
full  of  gratitude  to  you  all;  and  he  was  so  very 
kind." 

"  Yes,  at  last,"  said  Mab,  sharply.  "  But  he 
might  have  said  something  encouraging  sooner. 
I  thought  him  dreadfully  ugly  when  he  sat 
frowning,  and  only  said,  '  Continue.'  I  hated 
him  all  the  long  way  from  the  top  of  his  hair  to 
the  toe  of  his  polished  boot." 

"  Nonsense,  Mab ;  he  has  a  splendid  profile," 
said  Kate. 

"  Now,  but  not  then,  I  cannot  bear  people  to 
keep  their  minds  bottled  up  for  the  sake  of  let- 
ting them  off  with  a  pop.  They  seem  to  grudge 
making  you  happy  unless  they  can  make  you 
miserable  beforehand.  However,  I  forgive  him 
everything,"  said  Mab,  with  a  magnanimous  air, 
"  because  he  has  invited  me.  I  wonder  why  he 
fixed  on  me  as  the  musical  one  ?  Was  it  because 
I  have  a  bulging  forehead,  ma,  and  peep  from 
under  it  like  a  newt  from  under  a  stone?  " 

"  It  was  your  way  of  listening  to  the  singing, 
child,"  said  Mrs.  Meyrick.  "  He  has  magic  spec- 
tacles, and  sees  everything  through  them,  depend 
upon  it.  But  what  was  that  German  quotation 
you  were  so  ready  with,  Mirah,  —  you  learned 
puss?  " 


MORDECAI 


807 


"  Oh,  that  was  not  learning,"  said  Mir  ah,  her 
tearful  face  breaking  into  an  amused  smile.  "  I 
said  it  so  many  times  for  a  lesson.  It  means  that 
it  is  safer  to  do  anything  —  singing  or  anything 
else  —  before  those  who  know  and  understand  all 
about  it." 

"  That  was  why  you  were  not  one  bit  fright- 
ened, I  suppose,"  said  Amy.  "  But  now,  what 
we  have  to  talk  about  is  a  dress  for  you  on 
Wednesday." 

"  I  don't  want  anything  better  than  this  black 
merino,"  said  Mir  ah,  rising  to  show  the  effect. 
"  Some  white  gloves  and  some  new  bottines,'' 
She  put  out  her  little  foot,  clad  in  the  famous  felt 
slipper. 

"  There  comes  Hans,"  said  Mrs.  Meyrick. 
"  Stand  still,  and  let  us  hear  what  he  says  about 
the  dress.  Artists  are  the  best  people  to  consult 
about  such  things." 

"  You  don't  consult  me,  ma,"  said  Kate,  lift- 
ing up  her  eyebrow  with  a  playful  complaining- 
ness.  "  I  notice  mothers  are  like  the  people  I 
deal  with,  —  the  girls'  doings  are  always  priced 
low." 

"  My  dear  child,  the  boys  are  such  a  trouble, 
—  we  could  never  put  up  with  them,  if  we  did  n't 
make  believe  they  were  worth  more,"  said  Mrs. 
Meyrick,  just  as  her  boy  entered.  "  Hans,  we 
want  your  opinion  about  Mirah's  dress.  A  great 
event  has  happened.  Klesmer  has  been  here,  and 
she  is  going  to  sing  at  his  house  on  Wednesday 
among  grand  people.  She  thinks  this  dress  will 
do." 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Hans.  Mirah  in  her  child- 
like way  turned  towards  him  to  be  looked  at; 


308         DANIEL  DERONDA 


and  he,  going  to  a  little  further  distance,  knelt 
with  one  knee  on  a  hassock  to  survey  her. 

"  This  would  be  thought  a  very  good  stage- 
dress  for  me,"  she  said  pleadingly,  "  in  a  part 
where  I  was  to  come  on  as  a  poor  Jewess  and 
sing  to  fashionable  Christians." 

"  It  would  be  effective,"  said  Hans,  with  a 
considering  air;  "  it  would  stand  out  well  among 
the  fashionable  chiffons'' 

"  But  you  ought  not  to  claim  all  the  poverty 
on  your  side,  Mir  ah,"  said  Amy.  "  There  are 
plenty  of  poor  Christians  and  dreadfully  rich 
Jews  and  fashionable  Jewesses." 

"  I  did  n't  mean  any  harm,"  said  Mirah. 
"  Only  I  have  been  used  to  thinking  about  my 
dress  for  parts  in  plays.  And  I  almost  always 
had  a  part  with  a  plain  dress." 

"  That  makes  me  think  it  questionable,"  said 
Hans,  who  had  suddenly  become  as  fastidious 
and  conventional  on  this  occasion  as  he  had 
thought  Deronda  was,  apropos  of  the  Berenice- 
pictures.  "  It  looks  a  little  too  theatrical.  We 
must  not  make  you  a  role  of  the  poor  Jewess, 
—  or  of  being  a  Jewess  at  all."  Hans  had  a 
secret  desire  to  neutralize  the  Jewess  in  private 
life,  which  he  was  in  danger  of  not  keeping 
secret. 

"  But  it  is  what  I  am  really.  I  am  not  pre- 
tending anything.  I  shall  never  be  anything 
else,"  said  Mirah.  "  I  always  feel  myself  a 
Jewess." 

"  But  we  can't  feel  that  about  you,"  said  Hans, 
with  a  devout  look.  "  What  does  it  signify 
whether  a  perfect  woman  is  a  Jewess  or  not?  " 

"  That  is  your  kind  way  of  praising  me;  I 


MORDECAI 


809 


never  was  praised  so  before,"  said  Mirah,  with  a 
smile,  which  was  rather  maddening  to  Hans,  and 
made  him  feel  still  more  of  a  cosmopolitan. 

"  People  don't  think  of  me  as  a  British  Chris- 
tian," he  said,  his  face  creasing  merrily.  "  They 
think  of  me  as  an  imperfectly  handsome  young 
man  and  an  unpromising  painter." 

"  But  you  are  wandering  from  the  dress,"  said 
Amy.  "If  that  will  not  do,  how  are  we  to  get 
another  before  Wednesday?  and  to-morrow 
Sunday? " 

"  Indeed  this  will  do,"  said  Mirah,  entreat- 
ingly.  "It  is  all  real,  you  know,"  —  here  she 
looked  at  Hans,  —  "  even  if  it  seemed  theatri- 
cal. Poor  Berenice  sitting  on  the  ruins,  —  any 
one  might  say  that  was  theatrical,  but  I  know 
that  is  just  what  she  would  do." 

"  I  am  a  scoundrel,"  said  Hans,  overcome  by 
this  misplaced  trust.  "  That  is  my  invention. 
Nobody  knows  that  she  did  that.  Shall  you  for- 
give me  for  not  saying  so  before?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Mirah,  after  a  momentary 
pause  of  surprise.  "  You  knew  it  was  what  she 
would  be  sure  to  do,  —  a  Jewess  who  had  not 
been  faithful,  —  who  had  done  what  she  did  and 
was  penitent.  She  could  have  no  joy  but  to 
afflict  herself;  and  where  else  would  she  go?  I 
think  it  is  very  beautiful  that  you  should  enter 
so  into  what  a  Jewess  would  feel." 

"  The  Jewesses  of  that  time  sat  on  ruins,"  said 
Hans,  starting  up  with  a  sense  of  being  check- 
mated. "  That  makes  them  convenient  for 
pictures." 

"  But  the  dress,  —  the  dress,"  said  Amy;  "  is 
it  settled? " 


310  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  Yes;  is  it  not?  "  said  Mirah,  looking  doubt- 
fully at  Mrs.  Meyrick,  who  in  her  turn  looked 
up  at  her  son,  and  said,  "  What  do  you  think, 
Hans?" 

"  That  dress  will  not  do,"  said  Hans,  deci- 
sively. "  She  is  not  going  to  sit  on  ruins.  You 
must  jump  into  a  cab  with  her,  little  mother,  and 
go  to  Regent  Street.  It 's  plenty  of  time  to  get 
anything  you  like,  —  a  black  silk  dress  such  as 
ladies  wear.  She  must  not  be  taken  for  an  ob- 
ject of  charity.  She  has  talents  to  make  people 
indebted  to  her." 

"  I  think  it  is  what  Mr.  Deronda  would  like, 
—  for  her  to  have  a  handsome  dress,"  said  Mrs. 
Meyrick,  deliberating. 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  said  Hans,  with  some  sharp- 
ness. "  You  may  take  my  word  for  what  a 
gentleman  would  feel." 

"  I  wish  to  do  what  Mr.  Deronda  would  like 
me  to  do,"  said  Mirah,  gravely,  seeing  that  Mrs. 
Meyrick  looked  towards  her;  and  Hans,  turn- 
ing on  his  heel,  went  to  Kate's  table  and  took  up 
one  of  her  drawings,  as  if  his  interest  needed  a 
new  direction. 

"  Should  n't  you  like  to  make  a  study  of  Kles- 
mer's  head,  Hans?  "  said  Kate.  "  I  suppose  you 
have  often  seen  him?  " 

"Seen  him!"  exclaimed  Hans,  immediately 
throwing  back  his  head  and  mane,  seating  him- 
self at  the  piano  and  looking  round  him  as  if  he 
were  surveying  an  amphitheatre,  while  he  held 
his  fingers  down  perpendicularly  towards  the 
keys.  But  then  in  another  instant  he  wheeled 
round  on  the  stool,  looked  at  Mirah  and  said, 
half  timidly,  "  Perhaps  you  don't  like  this  mim- 


MORDECAI 


311 


icry;  you  must  always  stop  my  nonsense  when 
you  don't  like  it." 

Mirah  had  been  smiling  at  the  swiftly  made 
image,  and  she  smiled  still,  but  with  a  touch  of 
something  else  than  amusement,  as  she  said: 
"  Thank  you.  But  you  have  never  done  any- 
thing I  did  not  like.  I  hardly  think  he  could, 
belonging  to  you,"  she  added,  looking  at  Mrs. 
Meyrick. 

In  this  way  Hans  got  food  for  his  hope.  How 
could  the  rose  help  it  when  several  bees  in  suc- 
cession took  its  sweet  odour  as  a  sign  of  personal 
attachment  ? 


CHAPTER  VI 


Within  the  soul  a  faculty  abides. 
That  with  interpositions,  which  would  hide 
And  darken,  so  can  deal,  that  they  become 
Contingencies  of  pomp ;  and  serve  to  exalt 
Her  native  brightness,  as  the  ample  moon. 
In  the  deep  stillness  of  a  summer  even. 
Rising  behind  a  thick  and  lofty  grove. 
Burns,  like  an  unconsuming  fire  of  light. 
In  the  green  trees ;  and,  kindling  on  all  sides 
Their  leafy  umbrage,  turns  the  dusky  veil 
Into  a  substance  glorious  as  her  own. 
Yea,  with  her  own  incorporated,  by  power 
Capacious  and  serene. 

Wordsworth:  Excursion,  B.  IV. 

DERONDA  came  out  of  the  narrow  house 
at  Chelsea  in  a  frame  of  mind  that  made 
him  long  for  some  good  bodily  exercise 
to  carry  off  what  he  was  himself  inclined  to  call 
the  fumes  of  his  temper.  He  was  going  towards 
the  city,  and  the  sight  of  the  Chelsea  Stairs 
with  the  waiting  boats  at  once  determined  him  to 
avoid  the  irritating  inaction  of  being  driven  in  a 
cab,  by  calling  a  wherry  and  taking  an  oar. 

His  errand  was  to  go  to  Ram's  book-shop, 
where  he  had  yesterday  arrived  too  late  for  Mor- 
decai's  mid-day  watch,  and  had  been  told  that  he 
invariably  came  there  again  between  five  and  six. 
Some  further  acquaintance  with  this  remark- 
able inmate  of  the  Cohens  was  particularly  de- 
sired by  Deronda  as  a  preliminary  to  redeeming 
his  ring:  he  wished  that  their  conversation 
should  not  again  end  speedily  with  that  drop  of 
Mordecai's  interest  which  w^as  like  the  removal 
of  a  drawbridge,  and  threatened  to  shut  out  any 


MORDECAI 


313 


easy  communication  in  future.  As  he  got  warmed 
with  the  use  of  the  oar,  fixing  his  mind  on  the 
errand  before  him  and  the  ends  he  wanted  to 
achieve  on  Mirah's  account,  he  experienced,  as 
was  wont  with  him,  a  quick  change  of  mental 
light,  shifting  his  point  of  view  to  that  of  the 
person  whom  he  had  been  thinking  of  hitherto 
chiefly  as  serviceable  to  his  own  purposes,  and 
was  inclined  to  taunt  himself  with  being  not 
much  better  than  an  enlisting  sergeant,  who 
never  troubles  himself  with  the  drama  that 
brings  him  the  needful  recruits. 

"  I  suppose  if  I  got  from  this  man  the  infor- 
mation I  am  most  anxious  about,"  thought  De- 
ronda,  "  I  should  be  contented  enough  if  he 
felt  no  disposition  to  tell  me  more  of  himself, 
or  why  he  seemed  to  have  some  expectation 
from  me  which  was  disappointed.  The  sort  of 
curiosity  he  stirs  would  die  out;  and  yet  it 
might  be  that  he  had  neared  and  parted  as  one 
can  imagine  two  ships  doing,  each  freighted 
with  an  exile  who  would  have  recognized  the 
other  if  the  two  could  have  looked  out  face  to 
face.  Not  that  there  is  any  likelihood  of  a  pecu- 
liar tie  between  me  and  this  poor  fellow,  whose 
voyage,  I  fancy,  must  soon  be  over.  But  I 
wonder  whether  there  is  much  of  that  momentous 
mutual  missing  between  people  who  interchange 
blank  looks,  or  even  long  for  one  another's  ab- 
sence in  a  crowded  place.  However,  one  makes 
one's  self  chances  of  missing  by  going  on  the 
recruiting-sergeant's  plan." 

When  the  wherry  was  approaching  Black- 
friars  Bridge,  where  Deronda  meant  to  land, 
it  was  half -past  four,  and  the  gray  day  was 


314  DANIEL  DERONDA 


dying  gloriously,  its  western  clouds  all  broken 
into  narrowing  purple  strata  before  a  wide- 
spreading  saffron  clearness,  which  in  the  sky 
had  a  monumental  calm,  but  on  the  river,  with 
its  changing  objects,  was  reflected  as  a  luminous 
movement,  the  alternate  flash  of  ripples  or  cur- 
rents, the  sudden  glow  of  the  brown  sail,  the  pas- 
sage of  laden  barges  from  blackness  into  colour, 
making  an  active  response  to  that  brooding  glory. 

Feeling  well  heated  by  this  time,  Deronda 
gave  up  the  oar  and  drew  over  him  again  his 
Inverness  cape.  As  he  lifted  up  his  head  while 
fastening  the  topmost  button,  his  eyes  caught 
a  well-remembered  face  looking  towards  him 
over  the  parapet  of  the  bridge,  —  brought  out 
by  the  western  light  into  startling  distinctness 
and  brilliancy,  —  an  illuminated  type  of  bodily 
emaciation  and  spiritual  eagerness.  It  was  the 
face  of  Mordecai,  who  also,  in  his  watch  towards 
the  west,  had  caught  sight  of  the  advancing 
boat,  and  had  kept  it  fast  within  his  gaze,  at  first 
simply  because  it  was  advancing,  then  with  a 
recovery  of  impressions  that  made  him  quiver 
as  with  a  presentiment,  till  at  last  the  nearing 
figure  lifted  up  its  face  towards  him  —  the  face 
of  his  visions  —  and  then  immediately,  with 
white  uplifted  hand,  beckoned  again  and  again. 

For  Deronda,  anxious  that  Mordecai  should 
recognize  and  await  him,  had  lost  no  time  before 
signalling,  and  the  answer  came  straightway. 
Mordecai  lifted  his  cap  and  waved  it,  —  feeling 
in  that  moment  that  his  inward  prophecy  was 
fulfilled.  Obstacles,  incongruities,  all  melted 
into  the  sense  of  completion  with  which  his  soul 
was  flooded  by  this  outward  satisfaction  of  his 


MORDECAI 


315 


longing.  His  exultation  was  not  widely  differ- 
ent from  that  of  the  experimenter,  bending  over 
the  first  stirrings  of  change  that  correspond  to 
what  in  the  fervour  of  concentrated  prevision 
his  thought  has  foreshadowed.  The  prefigured 
friend  had  come  from  the  golden  background, 
and  had  signalled  to  him:  this  actually  was: 
the  rest  was  to  be. 

In  three  minutes  Deronda  had  landed,  had 
paid  his  boatman,  and  was  joining  Mordecai, 
whose  instinct  it  was  to  stand  perfectly  still  and 
wait  for  him. 

"  I  was  very  glad  to  see  you  standing  here," 
said  Deronda,  ''for  I  was  intending  to  go  on 
to  the  book-shop  and  look  for  you  again.  I  was 
there  yesterday,  —  perhaps  they  mentioned  it 
to  you." 

"Yes,"  said  Mordecai;  "that  was  the  rea- 
son I  came  to  the  bridge." 

This  answer,  made  with  simple  gravity,  was 
startlingly  mysterious  to  Deronda.  Were  the 
peculiarities  of  this  man  really  associated  with 
any  sort  of  mental  alienation,  according  to 
Cohen's  hint? 

"  You  knew  nothing  of  my  being  at  Chel- 
sea? "  he  said,  after  a  moment. 

"  No :  but  I  expected  you  to  come  down  the 
river.  I  have  been  waiting  for  you  these  five 
years."  Mordecai's  deep-sunk  eyes  were  fixed 
on  those  of  the  friend  who  had  at  last  arrived 
with  a  look  of  affectionate  dependence,  at  once 
pathetic  and  solemn.  Deronda's  sensitiveness 
was  not  the  less  responsive  because  he  could  not 
but  believe  that  this  strangely  disclosed  relation 
was  founded  on  an  illusion. 


316  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  It  will  be  a  satisfaction  to  me  if  I  can  be 
of  any  real  use  to  you,"  he  answered,  very  ear- 
nestly. "  Shall  we  get  into  a  cab  and  drive  to 
—  wherever  you  wish  to  go?  You  have  prob- 
ably had  walking  enough  with  your  short 
breath." 

"  Let  us  go  to  the  book-shop.  It  will  soon  be 
time  for  me  to  be  there.  But  now  look  up  the 
river,"  said  Mordecai,  turning  again  towards  it, 
and  speaking  in  undertones  of  what  may  be 
called  an  excited  calm,  —  so  absorbed  by  a  sense 
of  fulfilment  that  he  was  conscious  of  no  barrier 
to  a  complete  understanding  between  him  and 
Deronda.  "See  the  sky,  how  it  is  slowly  fading. 
I  have  always  loved  this  bridge:  I  stood  on  it 
when  I  was  a  little  boy.  It  is  a  meeting-place 
for  the  spiritual  messengers.  It  is  true  —  what 
the  Masters  said  —  that  each  order  of  things 
has  its  angel:  that  means  the  full  message  of 
each  from  what  is  afar.  Here  I  have  listened  to 
the  messages  of  earth  and  sky;  when  I  was 
stronger  I  used  to  stay  and  watch  for  the  stars 
in  the  deep  heavens.  But  this  time  just  about 
sunset  was  always  what  I  loved  best.  It  has 
sunk  into  me  and  dwelt  with  me,  —  fading, 
slowly  fading:  it  was  my  own  decline:  it 
paused,  —  it  waited,  till  at  last  it  brought  me 
my  new  life  —  my  new  self  —  who  will  live 
when  this  breath  is  all  breathed  out." 

Deronda  did  not  speak.  He  felt  himself 
strangely  wrought  upon.  The  first-prompted 
suspicion  that  Mordecai  might  be  liable  to  hallu- 
cinations of  thought,  —  might  have  become  a 
monomaniac  on  some  subject  which  had  given 
too  severe  a  strain  to  his  diseased  organism,  — 


MORDECAI 


air 


gave  way  to  a  more  submissive  expectancy. 
His  nature  was  too  large,  too  ready  to  conceive 
regions  beyond  his  own  experience,  to  rest  at 
once  in  the  easy  explanation,  "  madness,"  when- 
ever a  consciousness  showed  some  fulness  and 
conviction  where  his  own  was  blank.  It  ac- 
corded with  his  habitual  disposition  that  he 
should  meet  rather  than  resist  any  claim  on  him 
in  the  shape  of  another's  need;  and  this  claim 
brought  with  it  a  sense  of  solemnity  which 
seemed  a  radiation  from  Mordecai,  as  utterly 
nullifying  his  outward  poverty  and  lifting  him 
into  authority  as  if  he  had  been  that  preter- 
natural guide  seen  in  the  universal  legend,  who 
suddenly  drops  his  mean  disguise  and  stands  a 
manifest  Power.  That  impression  was  the  more 
sanctioned  by  a  sort  of  resolved  quietude  which 
the  persuasion  of  fulfilment  had  produced  in 
Mordecai's  manner.  After  they  had  stood  a  ^ 
moment  in  silence  he  said,  "  Let  us  go  now;  " 
and  when  they  were  walking  he  added,  "  We  will 
get  down  at  the  end  of  the  street  and  walk  to 
the  shop.  You  can  look  at  the  books,  and  Mr. 
Ram  will  be  going  away  directly  and  leave  us 
alone." 

It  seemed  that  this  enthusiast  was  just  as 
cautious,  just  as  much  alive  to  judgments  in 
other  minds  as  if  he  had  been  that  antipole 
of  all  enthusiasm  called  "  a  man  of  the 
world." 

While  they  were  rattling  along  in  the  cab, 
Mirah  was  still  present  with  Deronda  in  the 
midst  of  this  strange  experience,  but  he  foresaw 
that  the  course  of  conversation  would  be  deter- 
mined by  Mordecai,  not  by  himself :  he  was  no 


318  DANIEL  DERONDA 


longer  confident  what  questions  he  should  be 
able  to  ask ;  and  with  a  reaction  on  his  own  mood, 
he  inwardly  said :  "I  suppose  I  am  in  a  state 
of  complete  superstition,  just  as  if  I  were  await- 
ing the  destiny  that  could  interpret  the  oracle. 
But  some  strong  relation  there  must  be  between 
me  and  this  man,  since  he  feels  it  strongly. 
Great  heaven!  what  relation  has  proved  itself 
more  potent  in  the  world  than  faith  even  when 
mistaken,  —  than  expectation  even  when  per- 
petually disappointed?  Is  my  side  of  the  rela- 
tion to  be  disappointing  or  fulfilling?  —  well, 
if  it  is  ever  possible  for  me  to  fulfil,  I  will  not 
disappoint." 

In  ten  minutes  the  two  men,  with  as  intense 
a  consciousness  as  if  they  had  been  two  unde- 
clared lovers,  felt  themselves  alone  in  the  small 
gas-lit  book-shop  and  turned  face  to  face,  each 
^  baring  his  head  from  an  instinctive  feeling  that 
they  wished  to  see  each  other  fully.  Mordecai 
came  forward  to  lean  his  back  against  the  little 
counter,  while  Deronda  stood  against  the  oppo- 
site wall  hardly  more  than  four  feet  off.  I  wish 
I  could  perpetuate  those  two  faces,  as  Titian's 
"  Tribute  Money  "  has  perpetuated  two  types 
presenting  another  sort  of  contrast.  Imagine 

—  we  all  of  us  can  —  the  pathetic  stamp  of  con- 
sumption with  its  brilliancy  of  glance,  to  which 
the  sharply  defined  structure  of  features,  remind- 
ing one  of  a  forsaken  temple,  give  already  a  far- 
off  look  as  of  one  getting  unwillingly  out  of 
reach ;  and  imagine  it  on  a  Jewish  face  naturally 
accentuated  for  the  expression  of  an  eager  mind, 

—  the  face  of  a  man  little  above  thirty,  but  with 
that  age  upon  it  which  belongs  to  time  length- 


MORDECAI 


319 


ened  by  suffering,  the  hair  and  beard  still  black 
throwing  out  the  yellow  pallor  of  the  skin,  the 
difficult  breathing  giving  more  decided  marking 
to  the  mobile  nostril,  the  wasted  yellow  hands 
conspicuous  on  the  folded  arms:  then  give  to 
the  yearning  consumptive  glance  something  of 
the  slowly  dying  mother's  look  when  her  one 
loved  son  visits  her  bedside,  and  the  flickering 
power  of  gladness  leaps  out  as  she  says,  "  My 
boy!  "  —  for  the  sense  of  spiritual  perpetuation 
in  another  resembles  that  maternal  transference 
of  self. 

Seeing  such  a  portrait,  you  would  see  Mor- 
decai.  And  opposite  to  him  was  a  face  not  more 
distinctively  oriental  than  many  a  type  seen 
among  what  we  call  the  Latin  races:  rich  in 
youthful  health,  and  with  a  forcible  masculine 
gravity  in  its  repose,  that  gave  the  value  of 
judgment  to  the  reverence  with  which  he  met  the 
gaze  of  this  mysterious  son  of  poverty  who 
claimed  him  as  a  long-expected  friend.  The 
more  exquisite  quality  of  Deronda's  nature  — 
that  keenly  perceptive  sympathetic  emotiveness 
which  ran  along  with  his  speculative  tendency 
—  was  never  more  thoroughly  tested.  He  felt 
nothing  that  could  be  called  belief  in  the  validity 
of  Mordecai's  impressions  concerning  him,  or 
in  the  probability  of  any  greatly  effective  issue: 
what  he  felt  was  a  profound  sensibility  to  a  cry 
from  the  depths  of  another  soul;  and  accom- 
panying that,  the  summons  to  be  receptive  in- 
stead of  superciliously  prejudging.  Receptive- 
ness  is  a  rare  and  massive  power,  like  fortitude; 
and  this  state  of  mind  now  gave  Deronda's  face 
its  utmost  expression  of  calm,  benignant  force, 


320  DANIEL  DERONDA 


—  an  expression  which  nourished  Mordecai's 
confidence  and  made  an  open  way  before  him. 
He  began  to  speak. 

"  You  cannot  know  what  has  guided  me  to 
you  and  brought  us  together  at  this  moment. 
You  are  wondering." 

"  I  am  not  impatient,"  said  Deronda.  "  I 
am  ready  to  Hsten  to  whatever  you  may  wish 
to  disclose." 

"  You  see  some  of  the  reasons  why  I  needed 
you,"  said  Mordecai,  speaking  quietly,  as  if  he 
wished  to  reserve  his  strength.  "  You  see  that 
I  am  dying.  You  see  that  I  am  as  one  shut  up 
behind  bars  by  the  wayside,  who  if  he  spoke  to 
any  would  be  met  only  by  head-shaking  and 
pity.   The  day  is  closing,  —  the  light  is  fading, 

—  soon  we  should  not  have  been  able  to  discern 
each  other.    But  you  have  come  in  time." 

"  I  rejoice  that  I  am  come  in  time,"  said  De- 
ronda, feelingly.  He  would  not  say,  "  I  hope 
you  are  not  mistaken  in  me,"  —  the  very  word 
"  mistaken,"  he  thought,  would  be  a  cruelty  at 
that  moment. 

"  But  the  hidden  reasons  why  I  need  you  be- 
gan afar  off,"  said  Mordecai;  "began  in  my 
early  years  when  I  was  studying  in  another  land. 
Then  ideas,  beloved  ideas,  came  to  me,  because 
I  was  a  Jew.  They  were  a  trust  to  fulfil,  be- 
cause I  was  a  Jew.  They  were  an  inspiration, 
because  I  was  a  Jew,  and  felt  the  heart  of  my 
race  beating  within  me.  They  were  my  life; 
I  was  not  fully  born  till  then.  I  counted  this 
heart 5  and  this  breath,  and  this  right  hand  "  — 
Mordecai  had  pathetically  pressed  his  hand 
against  his  breast,  and  then  stretched  its  wasted 


MORDECAI 


321 


fingers  out  before  him,  —  "I  counted  my  sleep 
and  my  waking,  and  the  work  I  fed  my  body 
with,  and  the  sight  that  fed  my  eyes,  —  I  counted 
them  but  as  fuel  to  the  divine  flame.  But  I  had 
done  as  one  who  wanders  and  engraves  his 
thought  in  rocky  solitudes,  and  before  I  could 
change  my  course  came  care  and  labour  and  dis- 
ease, and  blocked  the  way  before  me,  and  bound 
me  with  the  iron  that  eats  itself  into  the  soul. 
Then  I  said,  '  How  shall  I  save  the  life  within 
me  from  being  stifled  with  this  stifled  breath? '  " 

Mordecai  paused  to  rest  that  poor  breath 
which  had  been  taxed  by  the  rising  excitement 
of  his  speech.  And  also  he  wished  to  check  that 
excitement.  Deronda  dared  not  speak:  the 
very  silence  in  the  narrow  space  seemed  alive 
with  mingled  awe  and  compassion  before  this 
struggling  fervour.  And  presently  Mordecai 
went  on,  — 

"  But  you  may  misunderstand  me.  I  speak 
not  as  an  ignorant  dreamer,  —  as  one  bred  up 
in  the  inland  valleys,  thinking  ancient  thoughts 
anew,  and  not  knowing  them  ancient,  never  hav- 
ing stood  by  the  great  waters  where  the  world's 
knowledge  passes  to  and  fro.  English  is  my 
mother-tongue,  England  is  the  native  land  of 
this  body,  which  is  but  as  a  breaking  pot  of  earth 
around  the  fruit-bearing  tree,  whose  seed  might 
make  the  desert  rejoice.  But  my  true  life  was 
nourished  in  Holland,  at  the  feet  of  my  mother's 
brother,  a  Rabbi  skilled  in  special  learning ;  and 
when  he  died  I  went  to  Hamburg  to  study,  and 
afterwards  to  Gottingen,  that  I  might  take  a 
larger  outlook  on  my  people  and  on  the  Gentile 
world,  and  drink  knowledge  at  all  sources.  I 

VOL.  XIII  —  21 


322  DANIEL  DERONDA 


was  a  youth;  I  felt  free;  I  saw  our  chief  seats 
in  Germany;  I  was  not  then  in  utter  poverty. 
And  I  had  possessed  myself  of  a  handicraft. 
For  I  said,  I  care  not  if  my  lot  be  as  that  of 
Joshua  ben  Chananja:  after  the  last  destruc- 
tion he  earned  his  bread  by  making  needles,  but 
in  his  youth  he  had  been  a  singer  on  the  steps  of 
the  Temple,  and  had  a  memory  of  what  was, 
before  the  glory  departed.  I  said,  let  my  body 
dwell  in  poverty,  and  my  hands  be  as  the  hands 
of  the  toiler;  but  let  my  soul  be  as  a  temple  of 
remembrance  where  the  treasures  of  knowledge 
enter  and  the  inner  sanctuary  is  hope.  I  knew 
what  I  chose.  They  said,  '  He  feeds  himself  on 
visions,'  and  I  denied  not;  for  visions  are  the 
creators  and  feeders  of  the  world.  I  see,  I 
measure  the  world  as  it  is,  which  the  vision  will 
create  anew.  You  are  not  listening  to  one  who 
raves  aloof  from  the  lives  of  his  fellows." 

Mordecai  paused;  and  Deronda,  feeling  that 
the  pause  was  expectant,  said:  "Do  me  the 
justice  to  believe  that  I  was  not  inclined  to  call 
your  words  raving.  I  listen  that  I  may  know, 
without  prejudgment.  I  have  had  experience 
which  gives  me  a  keen  interest  in  the  story  of  a 
spiritual  destiny  embraced  willingly,  and  em- 
braced in  youth." 

"  A  spiritual  destiny  embraced  willingly  —  in 
youth?  "  Mordecai  repeated  in  a  corrective. tone. 
*'  It  was  the  soul  fully  born  within  me,  and  it 
came  in  my  boyhood.  It  brought  its  own  world, 
—  a  mediaeval  world,  where  there  were  men  who 
made  the  ancient  language  live  again  in  new 
psalms  of  exile.  They  had  absorbed  the  philoso- 
phy of  the  Gentile  into  the  faith  of  the  Jew, 


MORDECAI 


323 


and  they  still  yearned  toward  a  centre  for  our 
race.  One  of  their  souls  was  born  again  within 
me,  and  awaked  amid  the  memories  of  their 
world.  It  travelled  into  Spain  and  Provence; 
it  debated  with  Aben-Ezra;  it  took  ship  with 
Jehuda  ha-Levi;  it  heard  the  roar  of  the  Cru- 
saders and  the  shrieks  of  tortured  Israel.  And 
when  its  dumb  tongue  was  loosed,  it  spoke  the 
speech  they  had  made  alive  with  the  new  blood 
of  their  ardour,  their  sorrow,  and  their  martyred 
trust:  it  sang  with  the  cadence  of  their  strain." 

Mordecai  paused  again,  and  then  said  in  a 
loud,  hoarse  whisper,  — 

"  While  it  is  imprisoned  in  me,  it  will  never 
learn  another." 

"  Have  you  written  entirely  in  Hebrew, 
then?  "  said  Deronda,  remembering  with  some 
anxiety  the  former  question  as  to  his  own  knowl- 
edge of  that  tongue. 

"  Yes  —  yes,"  said  Mordecai,  in  a  tone  of 
deep  sadness;  "  in  my  youth  I  wandered  toward 
that  solitude,  not  feeling  that  it  was  a  solitude. 
I  had  the  ranks  of  the  great  dead  around  me; 
the  martyrs  gathered  and  listened.  But  soon 
I  found  that  the  living  were  deaf  to  me.  At  first 
I  saw  my  life  spread  as  a  long  future:  I  said, 
part  of  my  Jewish  heritage  is  an  unbreaking 
patience;  part  is  skill  to  seek  divers  methods 
and  find  a  rooting-place  where  the  planters  de- 
spair. But  there  came  new  messengers  from  the 
Eternal.  I  had  to  bow  under  the  yoke  that 
presses  on  the  great  multitude  born  of  woman: 
family  troubles  called  me,  —  I  had  to  work, 
to  care,  not  for  myself  alone.  I  was  left  solitary 
again;  but  already  the  angel  of  death  had 


324  DANIEL  DERONDA 


turned  to  me  and  beckoned,  and  I  felt  his  skirts 
continually  on  my  path.  I  loosed  not  my  effort. 
I  besought  hearing  and  help.  I  spoke ;  I  went 
to  men  of  our  people,  —  to  the  rich  in  influence 
or  knowledge,  to  the  rich  in  other  wealth.  But 
I  found  none  to  listen  with  understanding.  I 
was  rebuked  for  error;  I  was  offered  a  small 
sum  in  charity.  No  wonder.  I  looked  poor^  I 
carried  a  bundle  of  Hebrew  manuscript  with 
me;  I  said,  our  chief  teachers  are  misleading 
the  hope  of  our  race.  Scholar  and  merchant  were 
both  too  busy  to  listen.  Scorn  stood  as  inter- 
preter between  me  and  them.  One  said,  '  The 
Book  of  Mormon  would  never  have  answered 
in  Hebrew;  and  if  you  mean  to  address  our 
learned  men,  it  is  not  likely  you  can  teach  them 
anything.'    He  touched  a  truth  there." 

The  last  word;s  had  a  perceptible  irony  in  their 
hoarsened  tone. 

"  But  though  you  had  accustomed  yourself 
to  write  in  Hebrew,  few,  surely,  can  use  Eng- 
lish better,"  said  Deronda,  wanting  to  hint  con- 
solation in  a  new  effort  for  which  he  could  smooth 
the  way. 

Mordecai  shook  his  head  slowly,  and  an- 
swered, — 

"  Too  late,  —  too  late.  I  can  write  no  more. 
My  writing  would  be  like  this  gasping  breath. 
But  the  breath  may  wake  the  fount  of  pity,  — 
the  writing  not.  If  I  could  write  now  and  used 
English,  I  should  be  as  one  who  beats  a  board 
to  summon  those  who  have  been  used  to  no  sig- 
nal but  a  bell.  My  soul  has  an  ear  to  hear  the 
faults  of  its  own  speech.  New  writing  of  mine 
would  be  like  this  body,"  —  Mordecai  spread 


MORDECAI 


325 


his  arms,  —  "  within  it  there  might  be  the  Ruach- 
ha-kodesh,  —  the  breath  of  divine  thought  —  but 
men  would  smile  at  it  and  say, '  A  poor  Jew ! '  — 
and  the  chief  smilers  would  be  of  my  own  people." 

Mordecai  let  his  hands  fall,  and  his  head  sink 
in  melancholy ;  for  the  moment  he  had  lost  hold 
of  his  hope.  Despondency,  conjured  up  by  his 
own  words,  had  floated  in  and  hovered  above 
him  with  eclipsing  wings.  He  had  sunk  into 
momentary  darkness. 

"  I  feel  with  you,  —  I  feel  strongly  with  you," 
said  Deronda,  in  a  clear  deep  voice  which  was 
itself  a  cordial,  apart  from  the  words  of  sym- 
pathy. "  But  —  forgive  me  if  I  speak  hastily 
—  for  what  you  have  actually  written  there  need 
be  no  utter  burial.  The  means  of  publication 
are  within  reach.  If  you  will  rely  on  me,  I  can 
assure  you  of  all  that  is  necessary  to  that  end." 

"  That  is  not  enough,"  said  Mordecai,  quickly, 
looking  up  again  with  the  flash  of  recovered 
memory  and  confidence.  "  That  is  not  all  my 
trust  in  you.  You  must  be  not  only  a  hand  to 
me,  but  a  soul  —  believing  my  belief  —  being 
moved  by  my  reasons  —  hoping  my  hope  — 
seeing  the  vision  I  point  to  —  beholding  a  glory 
where  I  behold  it!"  —  Mordecai  had  taken  a 
step  nearer  as  he  spoke,  and  now  laid  his  hand 
on  Deronda's  arm  with  a  tight  grasp;  his  face 
little  more  than  a  foot  off  had  something  like 
a  pale  flame  in  it,  —  an  intensity  of  reliance 
that  acted  as  a  peremptory  claim,  while  he  went 
on:  "You  will  be  my  life;  it  will  be  planted 
afresh;  it  will  grow.  You  shall  take  the  inher- 
itance; it  has  been  gathering  for  ages.  The 
generations  are  crowding  on  my  narrow  life  as 


326  DANIEL  DERONDA 


a  bridge :  what  has  been  and  what  is  to  be  are 
meeting  there ;  and  the  bridge  is  breaking.  But 
I  have  found  you.  You  have  come  in  time. 
You  will  take  the  inheritance  which  the  base  son 
refuses  because  of  the  tombs  which  the  plough 
and  harrow  may  not  pass  over  or  the  gold-seeker 
disturb:  you  will  take  the  sacred  inheritance  of 
the  Jew."  * 

Deronda  had  become  as  pallid  as  Mordecai. 
Quick  as  an  alarm  of  flood  or  fire,  there  spread 
within  him  not  only  a  compassionate  dread  of 
discouraging  this  fellow-man  who  urged  a 
prayer  as  of  one  in  the  last  agony,  but  also  the 
opposing  dread  of  fatally  feeding  an  illusion, 
and  being  hurried  on  to  a  self -committal  which 
might  turn  into  a  falsity.  The  peculiar  appeal 
to  his  tenderness  overcame  the  repulsion  that 
most  of  us  experience  under  a  grasp  and  speech 
which  assume  to  dominate.  The  difficulty  to 
him  was  to  inflict  the  accents  of  hesitation  and 
doubt  on  this  ardent  suffering  creature,  who  was 
crowding  too  much  of  his  brief  being  into  a 
moment  of  perhaps  extravagant  trust.  With 
exquisite  instinct,  Deronda,  before  he  opened 
his  lips,  placed  his  palm  gently  on  Mordecai's 
straining  hand,  —  an  act  just  then  equal  to 
many  speeches.  And  after  that  he  said,  with- 
out haste,  as  if  conscious  that  he  might  be 
wrong,  — 

"Do  you  forget  what  I  told  you  when  we 
first  saw  each  other?  Do  you  remember  that  I 
said  I  was  not  of  your  race?  " 

"  It  can't  be  true,"  Mordecai  whispered  im- 
mediately, with  no  sign  of  shock.  The  sym- 
pathetic hand,  still  upon  him  had  fortified  the 


MORDECAI 


327 


feeling  which  was  stronger  than  those  words  of 
denial.  There  was  a  perceptible  pause,  De- 
ronda  feeling  it  impossible  to  answer,  conscious 
indeed  that  the  assertion,  "  It  can't  be  true,"  had 
the  pressure  of  argument  for  him.  Mordecai, 
too  entirely  possessed  by  the  supreme  impor- 
tance of  the  relation  between  himself  and  De- 
ronda  to  have  any  other  care  in  his  speech, 
followed  up  that  assertion  by  a  second,  which 
came  to  his  lips  as  a  mere  sequence  of  his 
long-cherished  conviction,  — 

"  You  are  not  sure  of  your  own  origin." 

"  How  do  you  know  that?  "  said  Daniel,  with 
an  habitual  shrinking  which  made  him  remove  his 
hand  from  Mordecai's,  who  also  relaxed  his  hold, 
and  fell  back  into  his  former  leaning  position. 

"I  know  it,  —  I  know  it;  what  is  my  life 
else?  "  said  Mordecai,  with  a  low  cry  of  im- 
patience. "  Tell  me  everything:  tell  me  why 
you  deny." 

He  could  have  no  conception  what  that  de- 
mand was  to  the  hearer,  —  how  probingly  it 
touched  the  hidden  sensibility,  the  vividly  con- 
scious reticence  of  years;  how  the  uncertainty 
he  was  insisting  on  as  part  of  his  own  hope  had 
always  for  Daniel  been  a  threatening  possibility 
of  painful  revelation  about  his  mother.  But  the 
moment  had  influences  which  were  not  only  new 
but  solemn  to  Deronda :  any  evasion  here  might 
turn  out  to  be  a  hateful  refusal  of  some  task  that 
belonged  to  him,  some  act  of  due  fellowship; 
in  any  case  it  would  be  a  cruel  rebuff  to  a  being 
who  was  appealing  to  him  as  a  forlorn  hope 
under  the  shadow  of  a  coming  doom.  After  a 
few  moments  he  said,  with  a  great  effort  over 


328         DANIEL  DERONDA 


himself,  —  determined  to  tell  all  the  truth 
briefly,  — 

"  I  have  never  known  my  mother.  I  have  no 
knowledge  about  her.  I  have  never  called  any 
man  father.  But  I  am  convinced  that  my  father 
is  an  Englishman." 

Deronda's  deep  tones  had  a  tremor  in  them 
as  he  uttered  this  confession;  and  all  the  while 
there  was  an  undercurrent  of  amazement  in  him 
at  the  strange  circumstances  under  which  he 
uttered  it.  It  seemed  as  if  Mordecai  were  hardly 
overrating  his  own  power  to  determine  the  action 
of  the  friend  whom  he  had  mysteriously  chosen. 

"  It  will  be  seen,  —  it  will  be  declared,"  said 
Mordecai,  triumphantly.  "  The  world  grows, 
and  its  frame  is  knit  together  by  the  growing 
soul;  dim,  dim  at  first,  then  clearer  and  more 
clear,  the  consciousness  discerns  remote  stirrings. 
As  thoughts  move  within  us  darkly,  and  shake 
us  before  they  are  fully  discerned,  —  so  events, 
so  beings:  they  are  knit  with  us  in  the  growth 
of  the  world.  You  have  risen  within  me  like  a 
thought  not  fully  spelled:  my  soul  is  shaken 
before  the  words  are  all  there.  The  rest  will 
come,  —  it  will  come." 

"  We  must  not  lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  the 
outward  event  has  not  always  been  a  fulfilment 
of  the  firmest  faith,"  said  Deronda,  in  a  tone  that 
was  made  hesitating  by  the  painfully  conflicting 
desires,  not  to  give  any  severe  blow  to  Mordecai, 
and  not  to  give  his  confidence  a  sanction  which 
might  have  the  severest  of  blows  in  reserve. 

Mordecai's  face,  which  had  been  illuminated 
to  the  utmost  in  that  last  declaration  of  his  con- 
fidence, changed  under  Deronda's  words,  but 


MORDECAI 


829 


not  into  any  show  of  collapsed  trust:  the  force 
did  not  disappear  from  the  expression,  but 
passed  from  the  triumphant  into  the  firmly 
resistant. 

"  You  would  remind  me  that  I  may  be  under 
an  illusion,  —  that  the  history  of  our  people's 
trust  has  been  full  of  illusion.  I  face  it  all." 
Here  Mordecai  paused  a  moment.  Then  bend- 
ing his  head  a  little  forward,  he  said,  in  his 
hoarse  whisper,  "So  it  might  be  with  my  trust, 
if  you  would  make  it  an  illusion.  But  you  will 
notr 

The  very  sharpness  with  which  these  words 
penetrated  Deronda,  made  him  feel  the  more 
that  here  was  a  crisis  in  which  he  must  be  firm. 

"  What  my  birth  was  does  not  lie  in  my  will," 
he  answered.  "  My  sense  of  claims  on  me  can- 
not be  independent  of  my  knowledge  there. 
And  I  cannot  promise  you  that  I  will  try  to 
hasten  a  disclosure.  Feelings  which  have  struck 
root  through  half  my  life  may  still  hinder  me 
from  doing  what  I  have  never  yet  been  able  to 
do.  Everything  must  be  waited  for.  I  must 
know  more  of  the  truth  about  my  own  life,  and 
I  must  know  more  of  what  it  would  become  if  it 
were  made  a  part  of  yours." 

Mordecai  had  folded  his  arms  again  while  De- 
ronda was  speaking,  and  now  answered  with 
equal  firmness,  though  with  difficult  breathing,  — 

"  You  shall  know.  What  are  we  met  for,  but 
that  you  should  know?  Your  doubts  lie  as 
light  as  dust  on  my  belief.  I  know  the  philoso- 
phies of  this  time  and  of  other  times :  if  I  chose 
I  could  answer  a  summons  before  their  tribunals. 
I  could  silence  the  beliefs  which  are  the  mother- 


330  DANIEL  DERONDA 


tongue  of  my  soul,  and  speak  with  the  rote- 
learned  language  of  a  system  that  gives  you 
the  spelling  of  all  things,  sure  of  its  alphabet 
covering  them  all.  I  could  silence  them:  may 
not  a  man  silence  his  awe  or  his  love  and  take 
to  finding  reasons,  which  others  demand?  But 
if  his  love  lies  deeper  than  any  reasons  to  be 
found?  Man  finds  his  pathways:  at  first  they 
were  foot-tracks,  as  those  of  the  beast  in  the 
wilderness;  now  they  are  swift  and  invisible: 
his  thought  dives  through  the  ocean,  and  his 
wishes  thread  the  air:  has  he  found  all  the  path- 
ways yet?  What  reaches  him,  stays  with  him, 
rules  him:  he  must  accept  it,  not  knowing  its 
pathway.  Say,  my  expectation  of  you  has 
grown  but  as  false  hopes  grow.  That  doubt 
is  in  your  mind?  Well,  my  expectation  was 
there,  and  you  are  come.  Men  have  died  of 
thirst.  But  I  was  thirsty,  and  the  water  is  on 
my  lips.  What  are  doubts  to  me?  In  the  hour 
when  you  come  to  me  and  say,  '  I  reject  your 
soul:  I  know  that  I  am  not  a  Jew:  we  have 
no  lot  in  common,'  —  I  shall  not  doubt.  I  shall 
be  certain,  —  certain  that  I  have  been  deluded. 
That  hour  will  never  come!  " 

Deronda  felt  a  new  chord  sounding  in  this 
speech :  it  was  rather  imperious  than  appealing, 
—  had  more  of  conscious  power  than  of  the 
yearning  need  which  had  acted  as  a  beseeching 
grasp  on  him  before.  And  usually,  though  he 
was  the  reverse  of  pugnacious,  such  a  change 
of  attitude  towards  him  would  have  weakened 
his  inclination  to  admit  a  claim.  But  here  there 
was  something  that  balanced  his  resistance  and 
kept  it  aloof.   This  strong  man  whose  gaze  was 


MORDECAI 


331 


sustainedly  calm  and  his  finger-nails  pink  with 
health,  who  was  exercised  in  all  questioning, 
and  accused,  of  excessive  mental  independence, 
still  felt  a  subduing  influence  over  him  in  the 
tenacious  certitude  of  the  fragile  creature  before 
him,  whose  pallid  yellow  nostril  was  tense  with 
effort  as  his  breath  laboured  under  the  burthen 
of  eager  speech.  The  influence  seemed  to 
strengthen  the  bond  of  sympathetic  obligation. 
In  Deronda  at  this  moment  the  desire  to  escape 
what  might  turn  into  a  trying  embarrassment 
was  no  more  likely  to  determine  action  than  the 
solicitations  of  indolence  are  likely  to  determine 
it  in  one  with  whom  industry  is  a  daily  law.  He 
answered  simply,  — 

"  It  is  my  wish  to  meet .  and  satisfy  your 
wishes  wherever  that  is  possible  to  me.  It  is 
certain  to  me  at  least  that  I  desire  not  to  under- 
value your  toil  and  your  suffering.  Let  me 
know  your  thoughts.   But  where  can  we  meet?  " 

I  have  thought  of  that,"  said  Mordecai. 
"  It  is  not  hard  for  you  to  come  into  this  neigh- 
bourhood later  in  the  evening?  You  did  so 
once." 

"  I  can  manage  it  very  well  occasionally," 
said  Deronda.  "  You  live  under  the  same  roof 
with  the  Cohens,  I  think?  " 

Before  Mordecai  could  answer,  Mr.  Ram  re- 
entered to  take  his  place  behind  the  counter.  He 
was  an  elderly  son  of  Abraham,  whose  childhood 
had  fallen  on  the  evil  times  at  the  beginning  of 
this  century,  and  who  remained  amid  this  smart 
and  instructed  generation  as  a  preserved  speci- 
men, soaked  through  and  through  with  the  effect 
of  the  poverty  and  contempt  which  were  the 


332  DANIEL  DERONDA 


common  heritage  of  most  English  Jews  seventy 
years  ago.  He  had  none  of  the  oily  cheerfulness 
observable  in  Mr.  Cohen's  aspect:  his  very 
features  —  broad  and  chubby  —  showed  that 
tendency  to  look  mongrel  without  due  cause 
which  in  a  miscellaneous  London  neighbourhood 
may  perhaps  be  compared  with  the  marvels  of 
imitation  in  insects,  and  may  have  been  nature's 
imperfect  effort  on  behalf  of  the  purer  Cau- 
casian to  shield  him  from  the  shame  and  spitting 
to  which  purer  features  would  have  been  exposed 
in  the  times  of  zeal.  Mr.  Ram  dealt  ably  in 
books  in  the  same  way  that  he  would  have  dealt 
in  tins  of  meat  and  other  commodities,  —  with- 
out knowledge  or  responsibility  as  to  the  pro- 
portion of  rottenness  or  nourishment  they  might 
contain.  But  he  believed  in  Mordecai's  learning 
as  something  marvellous,  and  was  not  sorry  that 
his  conversation  should  be  sought  by  a  bookish 
gentleman,  whose  visits  had  twice  ended  in  a 
purchase.  He  greeted  Deronda  with  a  crabbed 
good-will,  and,  putting  on  large  silver  specta- 
cles, appeared  at  once  to  abstract  himself  in  the 
daily  accounts. 

But  Deronda  and  Mordecai  were  soon  in  the 
street  together,  and,  without  any  explicit  agree- 
ment as  to  their  direction,  were  walking  towards 
Ezra  Cohen's. 

"  We  can't  meet  there:  my  room  is  too  nar- 
row," said  Mordecai,  taking  up  the  thread  of 
talk  where  they  had  dropped  it.  "  But  there  is 
a  tavern  not  far  from  here  where  I  sometimes 
go  to  a  club.  It  is  the  Hand  and  Banner,  in 
the  street  at  the  next  turning,  five  doors  down. 
We  can  have  the  parlour  there  any  evening." 


MORDECAI 


333 


"  We  can  try  that  for  once,"  said  Deronda. 
"  But  you  will  perhaps  let  me  provide  you  with 
some  lodging,  which  would  give  you  more  free- 
dom and  comfort  than  where  you  are." 

"  No ;  I  need  nothing.  My  outer  life  is  as 
naught.  I  will  take  nothing  less  precious  from 
you  than  your  soul's  brotherhood.  I  will  think 
of  nothing  else  yet.  But  I  am  glad  you  are 
rich.  You  did  not  need  money  on  that  diamond 
ring.  You  had  some  other  motive  for  bring- 
ing it." 

Deronda  was  a  little  startled  by  this  clear- 
sightedness; but  before  he  could  reply,  Mor- 
decai  added:  "  It  is  all  one.  Had  you  been  in 
need  of  the  money,  the  great  end  would  have 
been  that  we  should  meet  again.  But  you  are 
rich?  "  he  ended,  in  a  tone  of  interrogation. 

"  Not  rich,  except  in  the  sense  that  every 
one  is  rich  who  has  more  than  he  needs  for 
himself." 

"  I  desired  that  your  Ufe  should  be  free," 
said  Mordecai,  dreamily,  —  "  mine  has  been  a 
bondage." 

It  was  clear  that  he  had  no  interest  in  the  fact 
of  Deronda's  appearance  at  the  Cohens'  beyond 
its  relation  to  his  own  ideal  purpose.  Despair- 
ing of  leading  easily  up  to  the  question  he  wished 
to  ask,  Deronda  determined  to  put  it  abruptly, 
and  said,  — 

"  Can  you  tell  me  why  Mrs.  Cohen,  the 
mother,  must  not  be  spoken  to  about  her 
daughter? " 

There  was  no  immediate  answer,  and  he 
thought  that  he  should  have  to  repeat  the  ques- 
tion.   The  fact  was  that  Mordecai  had  heard 


334  DANIEL  DERONDA 


the  words,  but  had  to  drag  his  mind  to  a  new 
subject  away  from  his  passionate  preoccupation. 
After  a  few  moments,  he  replied  with  a  careful 
effort  such  as  he  would  have  used  if  he  had  been 
asked  the  road  to  Holborn,  — 

"  I  know  the  reason.  But  I  will  not  speak 
even  of  trivial  family  affairs  which  I  have  heard 
in  the  privacy  of  the  family.  I  dwell  in  their 
tent  as  in  a  sanctuary.  Their  history,  so  far  as 
they  injure  none  other,  is  their  own  possession." 

Deronda  felt  the  blood  mounting  to  his 
cheeks  as  a  sort  of  rebuke  he  was  little  used  to, 
and  he  also  found  himself  painfully  baffled  where 
he  had,  reckoned  with  some  confidence  on  getting 
decisive  knowledge.  He  became  the  more  con- 
scious of  emotional  strain  from  the  excitements 
of  the  day;  and  although  he  had  the  money  in 
his  pocket  to  redeem  his  ring,  he  recoiled  from 
the  further  task  of  a  visit  to  the  Cohens',  which 
must  be  made  not  only  under  the  former  uncer- 
tainty, but  under  a  new  disappointment  as  to 
the  possibility  of  its  removal. 

"  I  will  part  from  you  now,"  he  said,  just 
before  they  could  reach  Cohen's  door ;  and  Mor- 
decai  paused,  looking  up  at  him  with  an  anxious 
fatigued  face  under  the  gaslight. 

"When  will  you  come  back?  "  he  said,  with 
slow  emphasis. 

"  May  I  leave  that  unfixed?  May  I  ask  for 
you  at  the  Cohens'  any  evening  after  your  hour 
at  the  book-shop?  There  is  no  objection,  I  sup- 
pose, to  their  knowing  that  you  and  I  meet  in 
private?  " 

"  None,"  said  Mordecai.  "  But  the  days  I 
wait  now  are  longer  than  the  years  of  my 


MORDECAI 


335 


strength.  Life  shrinks:  what  was  but  a  tithe 
is  now  the  half.   My  hope  abides  in  you." 

"  I  will  be  faithful,"  said  Deronda,  —  he 
could  not  have  left  those  words  unuttered.  I 
will  come  the  first  evening  I  can  after  seven: 
on  Saturday  or  Monday,  if  possible.  Trust  me." 

He  put  out  his  ungloved  hand.  Mordecai, 
clasping  it  eagerly,  seemed  to  feel  a  new  in- 
streaming  of  confidence,  and  he  said  with  some 
recovered  energy,  "  This  is  come  to  pass,  and  the 
rest  will  come." 

That  was  their  good-by. 


Book  §)tjc 

REVELATIONS 


CHAPTER  I 

This,  too,  is  probable,  according  to  that  saying  of  Agathon:  "It  is  a 
part  of  probabihty  that  many  improbable  thmgs  will  happen."  — 
Aristotle:  Poetics. 

IMAGINE  the  conflict  in  a  mind  like  De- 
ronda's,  given  not  only  to  feel  strongly  but 
to  question  actively,  on  the  evening  after 
that  interview  with  Mordecai.  To  a  young  man 
of  much  duller  susceptibilities  the  adventure 
might  have  seemed  enough  out  of  the  common 
way  to  divide  his  thoughts;  but  it  had  stirred 
Deronda  so  deeply,  that  with  the  usual  reaction 
of  his  intellect  he  began  to  examine  the  grounds 
of  his  emotion,  and  consider  how  far  he  must 
resist  its  guidance.  The  consciousness  that  he 
was  half  dominated  by  Mordecai's  energetic 
certitude,  and  still  more  by  his  fervent  trust, 
roused  his  alarm.  It  was  his  characteristic  bias 
to  shrink  from  the  moral  stupidity  of  valuing 
lightly  what  had  come  close  to  him,  and  of  miss- 
ing blindly  in  his  own  life  of  to-day  the  crisis 
which  he  recognized  as  momentous  and  sacred  in 
the  historic  life  of  men.  If  he  had  read  of  this 
incident  as  having  happened  centuries  ago  in 
Rome,  Greece,  Asia  Minor,  Palestine,  Cairo,  to 
some  man  young  as  himself,  dissatisfied  with 


REVELATIONS  337 


his  neutral  life,  and  wanting  some  closer  fellow- 
ship, some  more  special  duty  to  give  him  ardour 
for  the  possible  consequences  of  his  work,  it 
would  have  appeared  to  him  quite  natural  that 
the  incident  should  have  created  a  deep  impres- 
sion on  that  far-off  man,  whose  clothing  and 
action  would  have  been  seen  in  his  imagination 
as  part  of  an  age  chiefly  known  to  us  through 
its  more  serious  effects.  Why  should  he  be 
ashamed  of  his  own  agitated  feeling  merely  be- 
cause he  dressed  for  dinner,  wore  a  white  tie,  and 
lived  among  people  who  might  laugh  at  his  own- 
ing any  conscience  in  the  matter  as  the  solemn 
folly  of  taking  himself  too  seriously?  —  that 
bugbear  of  circles  in  which  the  lack  of  grave 
emotion  passes  for  wit.  From  such  cowardice 
before  modish  ignorance  and  obtuseness,  De- 
ronda  shrank.  But  he  also  shrank  from  having 
his  course  determined  by  mere  contagion,  with- 
out consent  of  reason;  or  from  allowing  a 
reverential  pity  for  spiritual  struggle  to  hurry 
him  along  a  dimly  seen  path. 

What,  after  all,  had  really  happened?  He 
knew  quite  accurately  the  answer  Sir  Hugo 
would  have  given:  "A  consumptive  Jew,  pos- 
sessed by  a  fanaticism  which  obstacles  and  has- 
tening death  intensified,  had  fixed  on  Deronda 
as  the  anti-type  of  some  visionary  image,  the 
offspring  of  wedded  hope  and  despair:  despair 
of  his  own  life,  irrepressible  hope  in  the  propaga- 
tion of  his  fanatical  beliefs.  The  instance  was 
perhaps  odd,  exceptional  in  its  form,  but  substan- 
tially it  was  not  rare.  Fanaticism  was  not  so 
common  as  bankruptcy,  but  taken  in  all  its  as- 
pects it  was  abundant  enough.   While  Mordecai 

VOL.  XIII  —  22 


338  DANIEL  DERONDA 


was  waiting  on  the  bridge  for  the  fulfilment  of 
his  visions,  another  man  was  convinced  that  he 
had  the  mathematical  key  of  the  universe  which 
would  supersede  Newton,  and  regarded  all 
known  physicists  as  conspiring  to  stifle  his  dis- 
covery and  keep  the  universe  locked;  another, 
that  he  had  the  metaphysical  key,  with  just  that 
hair's-breadth  of  difference  from  the  old  wards 
which  would  make  it  fit  exactly.  Scattered  here 
and  there  in  every  direction  you  might  find  a  ter- 
rible person,  with  more  or  less  power  of  speech, 
and  with  an  eye  either  glittering  or  preternat- 
urally  dull,  on  the  look-out  for  the  man  who  must 
hear  him;  and  in  most  cases  he  had  volumes 
which  it  was  diflScult  to  get  printed,  or  if  printed 
to  get  read.  This  Mordecai  happened  to  have  a 
more  pathetic  aspect,  a  more  passionate,  pene- 
trative speech  than  was  usual  with  such  mono- 
maniacs: he  was  more  poetical  than  a  social 
reformer  with  coloured  views  of  the  new  moral 
world  in  parallelograms,  or  than  an  enthusiast 
in  sewage ;  still  he  came  under  the  same  class.  It 
would  be  only  right  and  kind  to  indulge  him  a 
little,  to  comfort  him  with  such  help  as  was  prac- 
ticable; but  what  likelihood  was  there  that  his 
notions  had  the  sort  of  value  he  ascribed  to  them? 
In  such  cases  a  man  of  the  world  knows  what  to 
think  beforehand.  And  as  to  Mordecai's  convic- 
tion that  he  had  found  a  new  executive  self,  it 
might  be  preparing  for  him  the  worst  of  disap- 
pointments,— that  which  presents  itself  as  final." 

Deronda's  ear  caught  all  these  negative  whis- 
perings ;  nay,  he  repeated  them  distinctly  to  him- 
self. It  was  not  the  first  but  it  was  the  most 
pressing  occasion  on  which  he  had  had  to  face  this 


REVELATIONS  339 


question  of  the  family  likeness  among  the  heirs 
of  enthusiasm,  whether  prophets,  or  dreamers  of 
dreams,  whether  the 

"Great  benefactors  of  mankind,  deliverers," 

or  the  devotees  of  phantasmal  discovery,  —  from 
the  first  believer  in  his  own  unmanif  ested  inspira- 
tion, down  to  the  last  inventor  of  an  ideal 
machine  that  will  achieve  perpetual  motion.  The 
kinship  of  human  passion,  the  sameness  of  mor- 
tal scenery,  inevitably  fill  fact  with  burlesque  and 
parody.  Error  and  folly  have  had  their  heca- 
tombs of  martyrs.  Reduce  the  grandest  type  of 
man  hitherto  known  to  an  abstract  statement  of 
his  qualities  and  efforts,  and  he  appears  in  dan- 
gerous company :  say  that,  like  Copernicus  and 
Galileo,  he  was  immovably  convinced  in  the  face 
of  hissing  incredulity ;  but  so  is  the  contriver  of 
perpetual  motion.  We  cannot  fairly  try  the 
spirits  by  this  sort  of  test.  If  we  want  to  avoid 
giving  the  dose  of  hemlock  or  the  sentence  of 
banishment  in  the  wrong  case,  nothing  will  do 
but  a  capacity  to  understand  the  subject-matter 
on  which  the  immovable  man  is  convinced,  and 
fellowship  with  human  travail,  both  near  and 
afar,  to  hinder  us  from  scanning  any  deep  ex- 
perience lightly.  Shall  we  say,  "Let  the  ages 
try  the  spirits,  and  see  what  they  are  worth  "  ? 
Why,  we  are  the  beginning  of  the  ages,  which 
can  only  be  just  by  virtue  of  just  judgments  in 
separate  human  breasts,  —  separate  yet  com- 
bined. Even  steam-engines  could  not  have  got 
made  without  that  condition,  but  must  have 
stayed  in  the  mind  of  James  Watt. 

This  track  of  thinking  was  familiar  enough  to 


340  DANIEL  DERONDA 


Deronda  to  have  saved  him  from  any  contemp- 
tuous prejudgment  of  Mordecai,  even  if  their 
communication  had  been  free  from  that  pecuHar 
claim  on  himself  strangely  ushered  in  by  some 
long-growing  preparation  in  the  Jew's  agitated 
mind.  This  claim,  indeed,  considered  in  what  is 
called  a  rational  way,  might  seem  justifiably  dis- 
missed as  illusory  and  even  preposterous ;  but  it 
was  precisely  what  turned  Mordecai's  hold  on 
him  from  an  appeal  to  his  ready  sympathy  into 
a  clutch  on  his  struggling  conscience.  Our  con- 
sciences are  not  all  of  the  same  pattern,  an  inner 
deliverance  of  fixed  laws:  they  are  the  voice  of 
sensibilities  as  various  as  our  memories  (which 
also  have  their  kinship  and  likeness) .  And  De- 
ronda's  conscience  included  sensibilities  beyond 
the  common,  enlarged  by  his  early  habit  of  think- 
ing himself  imaginatively  into  the  experience  of 
others. 

What  was  the  claim  this  eager  soul  made  upon 
him? — "You  must  beheve  my  beliefs  —  be 
moved  by  my  reasons  —  hope  my  hopes  —  see 
the  vision  I  point  to  —  behold  a  glory  where  I 
behold  it!  "  To  take  such  a  demand  in  the  light 
of  an  obligation  in  any  direct  sense  would  have 
been  preposterous,  —  to  have  seemed  to  admit 
it  would  have  been  dishonesty;  and  Deronda, 
looking  on  the  agitation  of  those  moments,  felt 
thankful  that  in  the  midst  of  his  compassion  he 
had  preserved  himself  from  the  bondage  of  false 
concessions.  The  claim  hung,  too,  on  a  supposi- 
tion which  might  be  —  nay,  probably  was  —  in 
discordance  with  the  full  fact:  the  supposition 
that  he,  Deronda,  was  of  Jewish  blood.  Was 
there  ever  a  more  hypothetic  appeal? 


REVELATIONS  341 


But  since  the  age  of  thirteen  Deronda  had 
associated  the  deepest  experience  of  his  affec- 
tions with  what  was  a  pure  supposition,  namely, 
that  Sir  Hugo  was  his  father:  that  was  a  hypoth- 
esis which  had  been  the  source  of  passionate 
struggle  within  him ;  by  its  light  he  had  been  ac- 
customed to  subdue  feelings  and  to  cherish  them. 
He  had  been  well  used  to  find  a  motive  in  a  con- 
ception which  might  be  disproved;  and  he  had 
been  also  used  to  think  of  some  revelation  that 
might  influence  his  view  of  the  particular  duties 
belonging  to  him.  To  be  in  a  state  of  suspense 
which  was  also  one  of  emotive  activity  and  scru- 
ple was  a  familiar  attitude  of  his  conscience. 

And  now,  suppose  that  wish-begotten  belief  in 
his  Jewish  birth,  and  that  extravagant  demand 
of  discipleship,  to  be  the  foreshadowing  of  an 
actual  discovery  and  a  genuine  spiritual  result: 
suppose  that  Mordecai's  ideas  made  a  real  con- 
quest over  Deronda's  conviction?  Nay,  it  was 
conceivable  that  as  Mordecai  needed  and  believed 
that  he  had  found  an  active  replenishment  of 
himself,  so  Deronda  might  receive  from  Morde- 
cai's mind  the  complete  ideal  shape  of  that  per- 
sonal duty  and  citizenship  which  lay  in  his  own 
thought  like  sculptured  fragments  certifying 
some  beauty  yearned  after  but  not  traceable  by 
divination. 

As  that  possibility  presented  itself  in  his  medi- 
tations, he  was  aware  that  it  would  be  called 
dreamy,  and  began  to  defend  it.  If  the  influence 
he  imagined  himself  submitting  to  had  been  that 
of  some  honoured  professor,  some  authority  in  a 
seat  of  learning,  some  philosopher  who  had  been 
accepted  as  a  voice  of  the  age,  would  a  thorough 


342  DANIEL  DERONDA 


receptiveness  towards  direction  have  been  ridi- 
culed ?  Only  by  those  who  hold  it  a  sign  of  weak- 
ness to  be  obliged  for  an  idea,  and  prefer  to  hint 
that  they  have  implicitly  held  in  a  more  correct 
form  whatever  others  have  stated  with  a  sadly 
short-coming  explicitness.  After  all,  what  was 
there  but  vulgarity  in  taking  the  fact  that  Mor- 
decai  was  a  poor  Jewish  workman,  and  that  he 
was  to  be  met  perhaps  on  a  sanded  floor  in  the 
parlour  of  the  Hand  and  Banner,  as  a  reason 
for  determining  beforehand  that  there  was  not 
some  spiritual  force  within  him  that  might  have 
a  determining  effect  on  a  white-handed  gentle- 
man? There  is  a  legend  told  of  the  Emperor 
Domitian,  that  having  heard  of  a  Jewish  family, 
of  the  house  of  David,  whence  the  ruler  of  the 
world  was  to  spring,  he  sent  for  its  members  in 
alarm,  but  quickly  released  them  on  observing 
that  they  had  the  hands  of  work-people,  — 
being  of  just  the  opposite  opinion  with  that 
Rabbi  who  stood  waiting  at  the  gate  of  Rome  in 
confidence  that  the  Messiah  would  be  found 
among  the  destitute  who  entered  there.  Both 
Emperor  and  Rabbi  were  wrong  in  their  trust 
of  outward  signs:  poverty  and  poor  clothes  are 
no  sign  of  inspiration,  said  Deronda  to  his  in- 
ward objector,  but  they  have  gone  with  it  in  some 
remarkable  cases.  And  to  regard  discipleship 
as  out  of  the  question  because  of  them,  would  be 
mere  dulness  of  imagination. 

A  more  plausible  reason  for  putting  disciple- 
ship out  of  the  question  was  the  strain  of  vision- 
ary excitement  in  Mordecai,  which  turned  his 
wishes  into  overmastering  impressions,  and  made 
him  read  outward  facts  as  fulfilment.  Was  such 


REVELATIONS  343 


a  temper  of  mind  likely  to  accompany  that  wise 
estimate  of  consequences  which  is  the  only  safe- 
guard from  fatal  error,  even  to  ennobling  mo- 
tive? But  it  remained  to  be  seen  whether  that 
rare  conjunction  existed  or  not  in  Mordecai:  per- 
haps his  might  be  one  of  the  natures  where  a  wise 
estimate  of  consequences  is  fused  in  the  fires  of 
that  passionate  belief  which  determines  the  con- 
sequences it  believes  in.  The  inspirations  of  the 
world  have  come  in  that  way  too:  even  strictly 
measuring  science  could  hardly  have  got  on  with- 
out that  forecasting  ardour  which  feels  the  agita- 
tions of  discovery  beforehand,  and  has  a  faith  in 
its  preconception  that  surmounts  many  failures 
of  experiment.  And  in  relation  to  human  mo- 
tives and  actions,  passionate  belief  has  a  fuller 
efficacy.  Here  enthusiasm  may  have  the  validity 
of  proof,  and,  happening  in  one  soul,  give  the 
type  of  what  will  one  day  be  general. 

At  least,  Deronda  argued,  Mordecai's  vision- 
ary excitability  was  hardly  a  reason  for  conclud- 
ing beforehand  that  he  was  not  worth  listening 
to  except  for  pity's  sake.  Suppose  he  had  intro- 
duced himself  as  one  of  the  strictest  reasoners: 
do  they  form  a  body  of  men  hitherto  free  from 
false  conclusions  and  illusory  speculations?  The 
driest  argument  has  its  hallucinations,  too  hastily 
concluding  that  its  net  will  now  at  last  be  large 
enough  to  hold  the  universe.  Men  may  dream  in 
demonstrations,  and  cut  out  ah  illusory  world  in 
the  shape  of  axioms,  definitions,  and  proposi- 
tions, with  a  final  exclusion  of  fact  signed  Q.  E. 
D.  No  formulas  for  thinking  will  save  us  mor- 
tals from  mistake  in  our  imperfect  apprehension 
of  the  matter  to  be  thought  about.  And  since  the 


344  DANIEL  DERONDA 


unemotional  intellect  may  carry  us  into  a  mathe- 
matical dreamland  where  nothing  is  but  what  is 
not,  perhaps  an  emotional  intellect  may  have  ab- 
sorbed into  its  passionate  vision  of  possibilities 
some  truth  of  what  will  be,  —  the  more  compre- 
hensive massive  life  feeding  theory  with  new 
material,  as  the  sensibility  of  the  artist  seizes 
combinations  which  science  explains  and  justi- 
fies. At  any  rate,  presumptions  to  the  contrary 
are  not  to  be  trusted.  We  must  be  patient  with 
the  inevitable  makeshift  of  our  human  thinking, 
whether  in  its  sum  total  or  in  the  separate  minds 
that  have  made  the  sum.  Columbus  had  some 
impressions  about  himself  which  we  call  supersti- 
tions, and  used  some  arguments  which  we  dis- 
approve; but  he  had  also  some  true  physical 
conceptions,  and  he  had  the  passionate  patience 
of  genius  to  make  them  tell  on  mankind.  The 
world  has  made  up  its  mind  rather  contemptu- 
ously about  those  who  were  deaf  to  Columbus. 

"  My  contempt  for  them  binds  me  to  see  that 
I  don't  adopt  their  mistake  on  a  small  scale,"  said 
Deronda,  "  and  make  myself  deaf  with  the  as- 
sumption that  there  cannot  be  any  momentous 
relation  between  this  Jew  and  me,  simply  be- 
cause he  has  clad  it  in  illusory  notions.  What  I 
can  be  to  him,  or  he  to  me,  may  not  at  all  depend 
on  his  persuasion  about  the  way  we  came  to- 
gether. To  me  the  way  seems  made  up  of  plainly 
discernible  links.  If  I  had  not  found  Mirah,  it  is 
probable  that  I  should  not  have  begun  to  be 
specially  interested  in  the  Jews,  and  certainly  I 
should  not  have  gone  on  that  loitering  search 
after  an  Ezra  Cohen  which  made  me  pause  at 
Ram's  book-shop  and  ask  the  price  of  Maimon. 


REVELATIONS  345 


Mordecai,  on  his  side,  had  his  visions  of  a  disci- 
ple, and  he  saw  me  by  their  light ;  I  corresponded 
well  enough  with  the  image  his  longing  had 
created.  He  took  me  for  one  of  his  race.  Sup- 
pose that  his  impression,  —  the  elderly  Jew  at 
Frankfort  seemed  to  have  something  like  it,  — 
suppose,  in  spite  of  all  presumptions  to  the  con- 
trary, that  his  impression  should  somehow  be 
proved  true,  and  that  I  should  come  actually  to 
share  any  of  the  ideas  he  is  devoted  to?  This  is 
the  only  question  which  really  concerns  the  effect 
of  our  meeting  on  my  life. 

"  But  if  the  issue  should  be  quite  different?  — 
well,  there  will  be  something  painful  to  go 
through.  I  shall  almost  inevitably  have  to  be  an 
active  cause  of  that  poor  fellow's  crushing  disap- 
pointment. Perhaps  this  issue  is  the  one  I  had 
need  prepare  myself  for.  I  fear  that  no  tender- 
ness of  mine  can  make  his  suffering  lighter. 
Would  the  alternative  —  that  I  should  not  dis- 
appoint him  —  be  less  painful  to  me?  " 

Here  Deronda  wavered.  Feelings  had  lately 
been  at  work  within  him  which  had  very  much 
modified  the  reluctance  he  would  formerly  have 
had  to  think  of  himself  as  probably  a  Jew.  And, 
if  you  like,  he  was  romantic.  That  young  energy 
and  spirit  of  adventure  which  have  helped  to 
create  the  world-wide  legends  of  youthful  heroes 
going  to  seek  the  hidden  tokens  of  their  birth  and 
its  inheritance  of  tasks,  gave  him  a  certain  quiver- 
ing interest  in  the  bare  possibility  that  he  was 
entering  on  a  like  track,  —  all  the  more  because 
the  track  was  one  of  thought  as  well  as  action. 

"  The  bare  possibility."  He  could  not  admit  it 
to  be  more.    The  belief  that  his  father  was  an 


346  DANIEL  DERONDA 


Englishman  only  grew  firmer  under  the  weak  as- 
saults of  unwarranted  doubt.  And  that  a  mo- 
ment should  ever  come  in  which  that  belief  was 
declared  a  delusion,  was  something  of  which  De- 
ronda  would  not  say,  "  I  should  be  glad."  His 
lifelong  affection  for  Sir  Hugo,  stronger  than  all 
his  resentment,  made  him  shrink  from  admitting 
that  wish. 

Which  way  soever  the  truth  might  lie,  he  re- 
peated to  himself  what  he  had  said  to  Mordecai, 
—  that  he  could  not  without  farther  reason  un- 
dertake to  hasten  its  discovery.  Nay,  he  was 
tempted  now  to  regard  his  uncertainty  as  a  con- 
dition to  be  cherished  for  the  present.  If  further 
intercourse  revealed  nothing  but  illusions  as  what 
he  was  expected  to  share  in,  the  want  of  any  valid 
evidence  that  he  was  a  Jew  might  save  Mordecai 
the  worst  shock  in  the  refusal  of  fraternity.  It 
might  even  be  justifiable  to  use  the  uncertainty 
on  this  point  in  keeping  up  a  suspense  which 
would  induce  Mordecai  to  accept  those  offices  of 
friendship  that  Deronda  longed  to  urge  on  him. 

These  were  the  meditations  that  busied  De- 
ronda in  the  interval  of  four  days  before  he  could 
fulfil  his  promise  to  call  for  Mordecai  at  Ezra 
Cohen's,  Sir  Hugo's  demands  on  him  often  last- 
ing to  an  hour  so  late  as  to  put  the  evening  expe- 
dition to  Holborn  out  of  the  question. 


CHAPTER  II 


Wenn  es  eine  Stufenleiter  von  Leiden  giebt,  so  hat  Israel  die  hochste 
Staffel  erstiegen ;  wenn  die  Dauer  der  Schmerzen  und  die  Geduld,  mit 
welcher  sie  ertragen  werden,  adeln,  so  nehmen  es  die  Juden  mit  den 
Hochgeborenen  aller  Lander  auf;  wenn  eine  Literatur  reich  genannt 
wird,  die  wenige  klassische  Trauerspiele  besitzt,  welcher  Platz  gebiihrt 
dann  einer  Tragddie  die  anderthalb  Jahrtausende  wahrt,  gedichtet  und 
dargestelit  von  den  Helden  selber  ?  —  Zunz  :  Die  Synagogale  Poesie 
desMittelalters. 

"  TT  F  there  are  ranks  in  suffering,  Israel  takes 
I  precedence  of  all  the  nations, — if  the  dura- 
tion of  sorrows  and  the  patience  with  which 
they  are  borne  ennoble,  the  Jews  are  among  the 
aristocracy  of  every  land,  —  if  a  literature  is 
called  rich  in  the  possession  of  a  few  classic  trage- 
dies, what  shall  we  say  to  a  National  Tragedy 
lasting  for  fifteen  hundred  years,  in  which  the 
poets  and  the  actors  were  also  the  heroes?  " 

Deronda  had  lately  been  reading  that  passage 
of  Zunza,  and  it  occurred  to  him  by  way  of  con- 
trast when  he  was  going  to  the  Cohens,  who  cer- 
tainly bore  no  obvious  stamp  of  distinction  in 
sorrow  or  in  any  other  form  of  aristocracy.  Ezra 
Cohen  was  not  clad  in  the  sublime  pathos  of  the 
martyr,  and  his  taste  for  money-getting  seemed 
to  be  favoured  with  that  success  which  has  been 
the  most  exasperating  difference  in  the  greed  of 
Jews  during  all  the  ages  of  their  dispersion. 
This  Jeshurun  of  a  pawnbroker  was  not  a  sym- 
bol of  the  great  Jewish  tragedy;  and  yet  was 
there  not  something  typical  in  the  fact  that  a  life 
like  Mordecai's  —  a  frail  incorporation  of  the 
national  consciousness,  breathing  with  difficult 


348  DANIEL  DERONDA 


breath  —  was  nested  in  the  self-gratulating  ig- 
norant prosperity  of  the  Cohens? 

GHstening  was  the  gladness  in  their  faces 
when  Deronda  reappeared  among  them.  Cohen 
himself  took  occasion  to  intimate  that  although 
the  diamond  ring,  let  alone  a  little  longer,  would 
have  bred  more  money,  he  did  not  mind  that^  — 
not  a  sixpence,  —  when  compared  with  the  pleas- 
ure of  the  women  and  children  in  seeing  a  young 
gentleman  whose  first  visit  had  been  so  agreeable 
that  they  had  "  done  nothing  but  talk  of  it  ever 
since."  Young  Mrs.  Cohen  was  very  sorry  that 
baby  was  asleep,  and  then  very  glad  that  Ade- 
laide was  not  yet  gone  to  bed,  entreating  De- 
ronda not  to  stay  in  the  shop  but  to  go  forthwith 
into  the  parlour  to  see  "  mother  and  the  chil- 
dren." He  willingly  accepted  the  invitation, 
having  provided  himself  with  portable  presents, 
—  a  set  of  paper  figures  for  Adelaide,  and  an 
ivory  cup  and  ball  for  Jacob. 

The  grandmother  had  a  pack  of  cards  before 
her,  and  was  making  "  plates  "  with  the  children. 
A  plate  had  just  been  thrown  down  and  kept 
itself  whole. 

"  Stop!  "  said  Jacob,  running  up  to  Deronda 
as  he  entered.  "  Don't  tread  on  my  plate.  Stop 
and  see  me  throw  it  up  again." 

Deronda  complied,  exchanging  a  smile  of 
understanding  with  the  grandmother,  and  the 
plate  bore  several  tossings  before  it  came  to 
pieces;  then  the  visitor  was  allowed  to  come 
forward  and  seat  himself.  He  observed  that 
the  door  from  which  Mordecai  had  issued  on 
the  former  visit  was  now  closed,  but  he  wished 
to  show  his  interest  in  the  Cohens  before  dis- 


REVELATIONS  349 


closing  a  yet  stronger  interest  in  their  singular 
inmate. 

It  was  not  until  he  had  Adelaide  on  his  knee, 
and  was  setting  up  the  paper  figures  in  their 
dance  on  the  table,  while  Jacob  was  already 
practising  with  the  cup  and  ball,  that  Deronda 
said,  — 

"  Is  Mordecai  in  just  now?  " 

"  Where  is  he,  Addy?  "  said  Cohen,  who  had 
seized  an  interval  of  business  to  come  and  look 
on. 

"  In  the  workroom  there,"  said  his  wife,  nod- 
ding towards  the  closed  door. 

"  The  fact  is,  sir,"  said  Cohen,  "  we  don't 
know  what 's  come  to  him  this  last  day  or  two. 
He 's  always  what  I  may  call  a  little  touched, 
you  know,"  —  here  Cohen  pointed  to  his  own 
forehead,  —  "  not  quite  to  say  rational  in  all 
things,  like  you  and  me ;  but  he 's  mostly  won- 
derful regular  and  industrious  as  far  as  a  poor 
creature  can  be,  and  takes  as  much  delight  in 
the  boy  as  anybody  could.  But  this  last  day  or 
two  he 's  been  moving  about  like  a  sleep-walker, 
or  else  sitting  as  still  as  a  wax  figure." 

"  It 's  the  disease,  poor  dear  creature,"  said 
the  grandmother,  tenderly.  "  I  doubt  whether 
he  can  stand  long  against  it." 

"No;  I  think  it's  only  something  he's  got 
in  his  head,"  said  Mrs.  Cohen  the  younger. 
"  He 's  been  turning  over  writing  continually, 
and  when  I  speak  to  him  it  takes  him  ever  so 
long  to  hear  and  answer." 

"  You  may  think  us  a  little  weak  ourselves," 
said  Cohen,  apologetically.  "  But  my  wife  and 
mother  would  n't  part  with  him  if  he  was  a  still 


350  DANIEL  DERONDA 


worse  encumbrance.  It  is  n't  that  we  don't  know 
the  long  and  short  of  matters,  but  it 's  our  prin- 
ciple. There 's  fools  do  business  at  a  loss  and 
don't  know  it.    I 'm  not  one  of  'em." 

"  Oh,  Mordecai  carries  a  blessing  inside  him," 
said  the  grandmother. 

"  He 's  got  something  the  matter  inside  him," 
said  Jacob,  coming  up  to  correct  this  erratum  of 
his  grandmother's.  "  He  said  he  could  n't  talk 
to  me,  and  he  would  n't  have  a  bit  o'  bun." 

"So  far  from  wondering  at  your  feeling  for 
him,"  said  Deronda,  "  I  already  feel  something 
of  the  same  sort  myself.  I  have  lately  talked 
to  him  at  Ram's  book-shop,  —  in  fact,  I  prom- 
ised to  call  for  him  here,  that  we  might  go  out 
together." 

"  That 's  it,  then!  "  said  Cohen,  slapping  his 
knee.  "  He 's  been  expecting  you,  and  it 's 
taken  hold  of  him.  I  suppose  he  talks  about  his 
learning  to  you.  It 's  imcommonly  kind  of  you^ 
sir;  for  I  don't  suppose  there 's  much  to  be  got 
out  of  it,  else  it  would  n't  have  left  him  where 
he  is.  But  there 's  the  shop."  Cohen  hurried 
out,  and  Jacob,  who  had  been  listening  incon- 
veniently near  to  Deronda's  elbow,  said  to  him 
with  obliging  familiarity,  "  I  '11  call  Mordecai 
for  you,  if  you  like." 

"No,  Jacob,"  said  his  mother;  "open  the 
door  for  the  gentleman,  and  let  him  go  in  him- 
self.   Hush!  don't  make  a  noise." 

Skilful  Jacob  seemed  to  enter  into  the  play, 
and  turned  the  handle  of  the  door  as  noiselessly 
as  possible,  while  Deronda  went  behind  him  and 
stood  on  the  threshold.  The  small  room  was  lit 
only  by  a  dying  fire  and  one  candle  with  a  shade 


REVELATIONS  351 


over  it.  On  the  board  fixed  under  the  window, 
various  objects  of  jewellery  were  scattered: 
some  books  were  heaped  in  the  corner  beyond 
them.  Mordecai  was  seated  on  a  high  chair  at 
the  board  with  his  back  to  the  door,  his  hands 
resting  on  each  other  and  on  the  board,  a  watch 
propped  on  a  stand  before  him.  He  was  in  a 
state  of  expectation  as  sickening  as  that  of  a 
prisoner  listening  for  the  delayed  deliverance, 
—  when  he  heard  Deronda's  voice  saying,  "  I 
am  come  for  you.  Are  you  ready?  " 

Immediately  he  turned  without  speaking, 
seized  his  furred  cap  which  lay  near,  and  moved 
to  join  Deronda.  It  was  but  a  moment  before 
they  were  both  in  the  sitting-room,  and  Jacob, 
noticing  the  change  in  his  friend's  air  and  expres- 
sion, seized  him  by  the  arm  and  said,  "  See  my 
cup  and  ball!  "  sending  the  ball  up  close  to  Mor- 
decai's  face,  as  something  likely  to  cheer  a  conva- 
lescent. It  was  a  sign  of  the  relieved  tension  in 
Mordecai's  mind  that  he  could  smile  and  say, 
"  Fine,  fine!" 

"  You  have  forgotten  your  great-coat  and 
comforter,"  said  young  Mrs.  Cohen;  and  he 
went  back  into  the  workroom  and  got  them. 

"  He 's  come  to  life  again,  do  you  see?  "  said 
Cohen,  who  had  re-entered,  —  speaking  in  an 
undertone.  "  I  told  you  so :  I 'm  mostly  right." 
Then  in  his  usual  voice,  "  Well,  sir,  we  must  n't 
detain  you  now,  I  suppose ;  but  I  hope  this  is  n't 
the  last  time  we  shall  see  you." 

"  Shall  you  come  again?  "  said  Jacob,  advanc- 
ing. "  See,  I  can  catch  the  ball;  I  '11  bet  I  catch 
it  without  stopping,  if  you  come  again." 

"  He  has  clever  hands,"  said  Deronda,  looking 


352  DANIEL  DERONDA 


at  the  grandmother,  "  Which  side  of  the  family 
does  he  get  them  from?  " 

But  the  grandmother  only  nodded  towards  her 
son,  who  said  promptly:  "  My  side.  My  wife's 
family  are  not  in  that  line.  But,  bless  your  soul! 
ours  is  a  sort  of  cleverness  as  good  as  gutta 
percha;  you  can  twist  it  which  way  you  like. 
There 's  nothing  some  old  gentlemen  won't  do  if 
you  set  'em  to  it."  Here  Cohen  winked  down  at 
Jacob's  back,  but  it  was  doubtful  whether  this 
judicious  allusiveness  answered  its  purpose,  for 
its  subject  gave  a  nasal  whinnying  laugh  and 
stamped  about,  singing,  "  Old  gentlemen,  old 
gentlemen,"  in  chiming  cadence. 

Deronda  thought,  "  I  shall  never  know  any- 
thing decisive  about  these  people  until  I  ask 
Cohen  point-blank  whether  he  lost  a  sister  named  v 
Mirah  when  she  was  six  years  old."  The  decisive 
moment  did  not  yet  seem  easy  for  him  to  face. 
Still  his  first  sense  of  repulsion  at  the  common- 
ness of  these  people  was  beginning  to  be  tem- 
pered with  kindlier  feeling.  However  unrefined 
their  airs  and  speech  might  be,  he  was  forced  to 
admit  some  moral  refinement  in  their  treatment 
of  the  consumptive  workman,  whose  mental  dis- 
tinction impressed  them  chiefly  as  a  harmless, 
silent  raving. 

"  The  Cohens  seem  to  have  an  affection  for 
you,"  said  Deronda,  as  soon  as  he  and  Mordecai 
were  off  the  doorstep. 

"  And  I  for  them,"  was  the  immediate  an- 
swer. "  They  have  the  heart  of  the  Israelite 
within  them,  though  they  are  as  the  horse  and  the 
mule,  without  understanding  beyond  the  narrow 
path  they  tread." 


REVELATIONS 


353 


"  I  have  caused  you  some  uneasiness,  I  fear," 
said  Deronda,  "  by  my  slowness  in  fulfilling  my 
promise.  I  wished  to  come  yesterday,  but  I 
found  it  impossible." 

"  Yes  —  yes,  I  trusted  you.  But  it  is  true  I 
have  been  uneasy,  for  the  spirit  of  my  youth  has 
been  stirred  within  me,  and  this  body  is  not 
strong  enough  to  bear  the  beating  of  its  wings. 
I  am  as  a  man  bound  and  imprisoned  through 
long  years :  behold  him  brought  to  speech  of  his 
fellow  and  his  limbs  set  free:  he  weeps,  he  tot- 
ters, the  joy  within  him  threatens  to  break  and 
overthrow  the  tabernacle  of  flesh." 

"  You  must  not  speak  too  much  in  this  even- 
ing air,"  said  Deronda,  feeling  Mordecai's  words 
of  reliance  like  so  many  cords  binding  him  pain- 
fully. "  Cover  your  mouth  with  the  woollen 
scarf.  We  are  going  to  the  Hand  and  Banner j 
I  suppose,  and  shall  be  in  private  there?  " 

"  No,  that  is  my  trouble  that  you  did  not  come 
yesterday.  For  this  is  the  evening  of  the  club  I 
spoke  of,  and  we  might  not  have  any  minutes 
alone  until  late,  when  all  the  rest  are  gone.  Per- 
haps we  had  better  seek  another  place.  But  I 
am  used  to  that  only.  In  new  places  the  outer 
world  presses  on  me  and  narrows  the  inward 
vision.  And  the  people  there  are  familiar  with 
my  face." 

"  I  don't  mind  the  club  if  I  am  allowed  to 
go  in,"  said  Deronda.  "It  is  enough  that  you 
like  this  place  best.  If  we  have  not  enough 
time,  I  will  come  again.  What  sort  of  club 
is  it? " 

"  It  is  called  '  The  Philosophers.'  They  are 
few  —  like  the  cedars  of  Lebanon  —  poor  men 

VOL.  XIII  —  23 


354  DANIEL  DERONDA 


given  to  thought.  But  none  so  poor  as  I  am; 
and  sometimes  visitors  of  higher  worldly  rank 
have  been  brought.  We  are  allowed  to  intro- 
duce a  friend  who  is  interested  in  our  topics. 
Each  orders  beer  or  some  other  kind  of  drink,  in 
payment  for  the  room.  Most  of  them  smoke.  I 
have  gone  when  I  could,  for  there  are  other  men 
of  my  race  who  come,  and  sometimes  I  have 
broken  silence.  I  have  pleased  myself  with  a 
faint  likeness  between  these  poor  philosophers 
and  the  Masters  who  handed  down  the  thought 
of  our  race,  —  the  great  Transmitters,  who  la- 
boured with  their  hands  for  scant  bread,  but 
preserved  and  enlarged  for  us  the  heritage  of 
memory,  and  saved  the  soul  of  Israel  alive  as 
a  seed  among  the  tombs.  The  heart  pleases 
itself  with  faint  resemblances." 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  go  and  sit  among 
them,  if  that  will  suit  you.  It  is  a  sort  of  meeting 
I  should  like  to  join  in,"  said  Deronda,  not  with- 
out relief  in  the  prospect  of  an  interval  before  he 
went  through  the  strain  of  his  next  private  con- 
versation with  Mordecai. 

In  three  minutes  they  had  opened  the  glazed 
door  with  the  red  curtain,  and  were  in  the  little 
parlour,  hardly  much  more  than  fifteen  feet 
square,  where  the  gaslight  shone  through  a 
slight  haze  of  smoke  on  what  to  Deronda  was  a 
new  and  striking  scene.  Half-a-dozen  men  of 
various  ages,  from  between  twenty  and  thirty 
to  fifty,  all  shabbily  dressed,  most  of  them  with 
clay  pipes  in  their  mouths,  were  listening  with  a 
look  of  concentrated  intelligence  to  a  man  in  a 
pepper-and-salt  dress,  with  blond  hair,  short 
nose,  broad  forehead,  and  general  breadth,  who. 


REVELATIONS  355 


holding  his  pipe  slightly  uplifted  in  the  left  hand, 
and  beating  his  knee  with  the  right,  was  just 
finishing  a  quotation  from  Shelley  (the  compari- 
son of  the  avalanche  in  his  "  Prometheus 
Unbound"),— 

"As  thought  by  thought  is  piled,  till  some  great  truth 
Is  loosened,  and  the  nations  echo  round." 

The  entrance  of  the  new-comers  broke  the  fix- 
ity of  attention,  and  called  for  a  re-arrangement 
of  seats  in  the  too  narrow  semicircle  round  the 
fireplace  and  the  table  holding  the  glasses,  spare 
pipes,  and  tobacco.  This  was  the  soberest  of 
clubs;  but  sobriety  is  no  reason  why  smoking 
and  "  taking  something  "  should  be  less  imperi- 
ously needed  as  a  means  of  getting  a  decent 
status  in  company  and  debate.  Mordecai  was 
received  with  welcoming  voices  which  had  a 
slight  cadence  of  compassion  in  them,  but  natu- 
rally all  glances  passed  immediately  to  his  com- 
panion. 

"  I  have  brought  a  friend  who  is  interested  in 
our  subjects,"  said  Mordecai.  "  He  has  trav- 
elled and  studied  much." 

"  Is  the  gentleman  anonymous?  Is  he  a  great 
Unknown?  "  said  the  broad-chested  quoter  of 
Shelley,  with  a  humorous  air. 

"  My  name  is  Daniel  Deronda.  I  am  un- 
known, but  not  in  any  sense  great."  The  smile 
breaking  over  the  stranger's  grave  face  as  he 
said  this  was  so  agreeable  that  there  was  a  gen- 
eral indistinct  murmur,  equivalent  to  a  "  Hear, 
hear;  "  and  the  broad  man  said,  — 

"  You  recommend  the  name,  sir,  and  are  wel- 
come.   Here,  Mordecai,  come  to  this  corner 


356 


DANIEL  DERONDA 


against  me,"  he  added,  evidently  wishing  to  give 
the  cosiest  place  to  the  one  who  most  needed  it. 

Deronda  w^as  well  satisfied  to  get  a  seat  on  the 
opposite  side,  w^here  his  general  survey  of  the 
party  easily  included  JNIordecai,  who  remained 
an  eminently  striking  object  in  this  group  of 
sharply  characterized  figures,  more  than  one  of 
whom,  even  to  Daniel's  little  exercised  discrimi- 
nation, seemed  probably  of  Jewish  descent. 

In  fact,  pure  English  blood  (if  leech  or  lancet 
can  furnish  us  with  the  precise  product)  did  not 
declare  itself  predominantly  in  the  party  at  pres- 
ent assembled.  Miller,  the  broad  man,  an  ex- 
ceptional second-hand  bookseller  who  knew  the 
insides  of  books,  had  at  least  grandparents  who 
called  themselves  German,  and  possibly  far- 
away ancestors  who  denied  themselves  to  be 
Jews;  Buchan,  the  saddler,  was  Scotch;  Pash, 
the  watchmaker,  was  a  small,  dark,  vivacious, 
triple-baked  Jew;  Gideon,  the  optical-instru- 
ment maker,  was  a  Jew  of  the  red-haired, 
generous-featured  type  easily  passing  for  Eng- 
lishmen of  unusually  cordial  manners;  and 
Croop,  the  dark-eyed  shoemaker,  was  probably 
more  Celtic  than  he  knew.  Only  three  would 
have  been  discernible  everywhere  as  English- 
men: the  wood-inlayer  Goodwin,  well-built, 
open-faced,  pleasant-voiced;  the  florid  labora- 
tory assistant  JNIarrables;  and  Lilly,  the  pale, 
neat-faced  copying-clerk,  whose  light-brown 
hair  was  set  up  in  a  small  parallelogram  above 
his  well-filled  forehead,  and  whose  shirt,  taken 
with  an  otherwise  seedy  costume,  had  a  fresh- 
ness that  might  be  called  insular,  and  perhaps 
even  something  narrow^er. 


REVELATIONS  357 


Certainly  a  company  select  of  the  select  among 
poor  men,  being  drawn  together  by  a  taste  not 
prevalent  even  among  the  privileged  heirs  of 
learning  and  its  institutions;  and  not  likely  to 
amuse  any  gentleman  in  search  of  crime  or  low 
comedy  as  the  ground  of  interest  in  people  whose 
weekly  income  is  only  divisible  into  shillings. 
Deronda,  even  if  he  had  not  been  more  than 
usually  inclined  to  gravity  under  the  influence 
of  what  was  pending  between  him  and  Morde- 
cai,  would  not  have  set  himself  to  find  food  for 
laughter  in  the  various  shades  of  departure  from 
the  tone  of  polished  society  sure  to  be  observable 
in  the  air  and  talk  of  these  men  who  had  prob- 
ably snatched  knowledge  as  most  of  us  snatch 
indulgences,  making  the  utmost  of  scant  oppor- 
tunity. He  looked  around  him  with  the  quiet 
air  of  respect  habitual  to  him  among  equals, 
ordered  whiskey  and  water,  and  offered  the  con- 
tents of  his  cigar-case,  which,  characteristicall}^ 
enough,  he  always  carried  and  hardly  ever  used 
for  his  own  behoof,  having  reasons  for  not  smok- 
ing himself,  but  liking  to  indulge  others.  Per- 
haps it  was  his  weakness  to  be  afraid  of  seeming 
strait-laced,  and  turning  himself  into  a  sort  of 
diagram  instead  of  a  growth  which  can  exercise 
the  guiding  attraction  of  fellowship.  That  he 
made  a  decidedly  winning  impression  on  the 
company  was  proved  by  their  showing  them- 
selves no  less  at  ease  than  before,  and  desirous 
of  quickly  resuming  their  interrupted  talk. 

"  This  is  what  I  call  one  of  our  touch-and-go 
nights,  sir,"  said  Miller,  who  was  implicitly  ac- 
cepted as  a  sort  of  moderator,  —  addressing 
Deronda  by  way  of  explanation,  and  nodding 


358         DANIEL  DERONDA 

toward  each  person  whose  name  he  mentioned. 
"  Sometimes  we  stick  pretty  close  to  the  point. 
But  to-night  our  friend  Pash,  there,  brought 
up  the  law  of  progress,  and  Vv^e  got  on  statistics ; 
then  Lilly,  there,  saying  we  knew  well  enough 
before  counting  that  in  the  same  state  of  so- 
ciety the  same  sort  of  things  would  happen,  and 
it  was  no  more  wonder  that  quantities  should 
remain  the  same  than  that  qualities  should  re- 
main the  same,  for  in  relation  to  society  num- 
bers are  qualities  —  the  number  of  drunkards  is 
a  quality  in  society  —  the  numbers  are  an  index 
to  the  qualities,  and  give  us  no  instruction,  only 
setting  us  to  consider  the  causes  of -difference 
between  different  social  states  —  Lilly  saying 
this,  we  went  off  on  the  causes  of  social  change, 
and  when  you  came  in  I  was  going  upon  the 
power  of  ideas,  which  I  hold  to  be  the  main 
transforming  cause." 

"  I  don't  hold  with  you  there.  Miller,"  said 
Goodwin,  the  inlayer,  more  concerned  to  carry 
on  the  subject  than  to  wait  for  a  word  from  the 
new  guest.  "  For  either  you  mean  so  many 
sorts  of  things  by  ideas  that  I  get  no  knowledge 
by  what  you  say,  any  more  than  if  you  said  light 
was  a  cause;  or  else  you  mean  a  particular  sort 
of  ideas,  and  then  I  go  against  your  meaning 
as  too  narrow.  For,  look  at  it  in  one  way,  all 
actions  men  put  a  bit  of  thought  into  are  ideas, 
—  say,  sowing  seed,  or  making  a  canoe,  or  bak- 
ing clay;  and  such  ideas  as  these  work  them- 
selves into  life  and  go  on  growing  with  it,  but 
they  can't  go  apart  from  the  material  that  set 
them  to  work  and  makes  a  medium  for  them. 
It 's  the  nature  of  wood  and  stone  yielding  to 


REVELATIONS  359 


the  knife  that  raises  the  idea  of  shaping  them, 
and  with  plenty  of  wood  and  stone  the  shaping 
will  go  on.  I  look  at  it  that  such  ideas  as  are 
mixed  straight  away  with  all  the  other  elements 
of  life  are  powerful  along  with  'em.  The  slower 
the  mixing,  the  less  power  they  have.  And  as 
to  the  causes  of  social  change,  I  look  at  it  in 
this  way,  —  ideas  are  a  sort  of  parliament,  but 
there  's  a  commonwealth  outside,  and  a  good 
deal  of  the  commonwealth  is  working  at  change 
without  knowing  what  the  parliament  is  doing." 

"  But  if  you  take  ready  mixing  as  your  test 
of  power,"  said  Pash,  "  some  of  the  least  practi- 
cal ideas  beat  everything.  They  spread  without 
being  understood,  and  enter„into  the  language 
without  being  thought  of." 

"  They  may  act  by  changing  the  distribu- 
tion of  gases,"  said  Marrables;  "instruments 
are  getting  so  fine  now,  men  may  come  to 
register  the  spread  of  a  theory  by  observed 
changes  in  the  atmosphere  and  corresponding 
changes  in  the  nerves." 

"  Yes,"  said  Pash,  his  dark  face  lighting  up 
rather  impishly,  "  there  is  the  idea  of  nationali- 
ties; I  dare  say  the  wild  asses  are  snuffing  it, 
and  getting  more  gregarious." 

"  You  don't  share  that  idea?  "  said  Deronda, 
finding  a  piquant  incongruity  between  Pash's 
sarcasm  and  the  strong  stamp  of  race  on  his 
features. 

"  Say  rather,  he  does  not  share  that  spirit," 
said  Mordecai,  who  had  turned  a  melancholy 
glance  on  Pash.  "  Unless  nationality  is  a  feel- 
ing, what  force  can  it  have  as  an  idea?  " 

"  Granted,  Mordecai,"  said  Pash,  quite  good- 


360  DANIEL  DERONDA 


humouredly.  "  And  as  the  feeling  of  nationality- 
is  dying,  I  take  the  idea  to  be  no  better  than  a 
ghost,  already  walking  to  announce  the  death." 

"  A  sentiment  may  seem  to  be  dying  and  yet 
revive  into  strong  life,"  said  Deronda.  "  Na- 
tions have  revived.  We  may  live  to  see  a  great 
outburst  of  force  in  the  Arabs,  who  are  being 
inspired  with  a  new  zeal." 

"  Amen,  amen,"  said  Mordecai,  looking  at 
Deronda  with  a  delight  which  was  the  begin- 
ning of  recovered  energy :  his  attitude  was  more 
upright,  his  face  was  less  worn. 

"  That  may  hold  with  backward  nations,"  said 
Pash,  "  but  with  us  in  Europe  the  sentiment  of 
nationality  is  destined  to  die  out.  It  will  last 
a  little  longer  in  the  quarters  where  oppression 
lasts,  but  nowhere  else.  The  whole  current  of 
progress  is  setting  against  it." 

"  Ay,"  said  Buchan,  in  a  rapid  thin  Scotch 
tone  which  was  like  the  letting  in  of  a  little  cool 
air  on  the  conversation,  "  ye  've  done  well  to 
bring  us  round  to  the  point.  Ye  're  all  agreed 
that  societies  change  —  not  always  and  every- 
where —  but  on  the  whole  and  in  the  long-run. 
Now,  with  all  deference,  I  would  beg  t'  observe 
that  we  have  got  to  examine  the  nature  of 
changes  before  we  have  a  warrant  to  call  them 
progress,  which  word  is  supposed  to  include  a 
bettering,  though  I  apprehend  it  to  be  ill  chosen 
for  that  purpose,  since  mere  motion  onward  may 
carry  us  to  a  bog  or  a  precipice.  And  the  ques- 
tions I  would  put  are  three:  Is  all  change  in 
the  direction  of  progress?  if  not,  how  shall  we 
discern  which  change  is  progress  and  which  not? 
and  thirdly,  how  far  and  in  what  ways  can  we 


REVELATIONS  361 


act  upon  the  course  of  change  so  as  to  promote 
it  where  it  is  beneficial,  and  divert  it  where  it 
is  injurious?  " 

But  Buchan's  attempt  to  impose  his  method 
on  the  talk  was  a  failure.  Lilly  immediately 
said,  — 

"  Change  and  progress  are  merged  in  the  idea 
of  development.  The  laws  of  development  are 
being  discovered,  and  changes  taking  place  ac- 
cording to  them  are  necessarily  progressive ;  that 
is  to  say,  if  we  have  any  notion  of  progress  or 
improvement  opposed  to  them,  the  notion  is  a 
mistake." 

"  I  really  can't  see  how  you  arrive  at  that  sort 
of  certitude  about  changes  by  calling  them  de- 
velopment," said  Deronda.  "  There  will  still  re- 
main the  degrees  of  inevitableness  in  relation  to 
our  own  will  and  acts,  and  the  degrees  of  wisdom 
in  hastening  or  retarding;  there  will  still  re- 
main the  danger  of  mistaking  a  tendency  which 
should  be  resisted  for  an  inevitable  law  that  we 
must  adjust  ourselves  to,  —  which  seems  to  me 
as  bad  a  superstition  or  false  god  as  any  that 
has  been  set  up  without  the  ceremonies  of 
philosophizing."  \ 

"  That  is  a  truth,"  skid  Mordecai.  "  Woe  to 
the  men  who  see  no  place  for  resistance  in  this 
generation!  I  believe  in  a  growth,  a  passage, 
and  a  new  unfolding  of  life  whereof  the  seed 
is  more  perfect,  more  charged  with  the  elements 
that  are  pregnant  with  diviner  form.  The  life 
of  a  people  grows,  it  is  knit  together  and  yet 
expanded,  in  joy  and  sorrow,  in  thought  and 
action;  it  absorbs  the  thought  of  other  nations 
into  its  own  forms,  and  gives  back  the  thought 


362  DANIEL  DERONDA 


as  new  wealth  to  the  world;  it  is  a  power  and  _ 
an  organ  in  the  great  body  of  the  nations.  But 
there  may  come  a  check,  an  arrest;  memories 
may  be  stifled,  and  love  may  be  faint  for  the 
lack  of  them;  or  memories  may  shrink  into 
withered  relics,  —  the  soul  of  a  people,  whereby 
they  know  themselves  to  be  one,  may  seem  to 
be  dying  for  want  of  common  action.  But  who 
shall  say,  '  The  fountain  of  their  life  is  dried 
up,  they  shall  forever  cease  to  be  a  nation  '  ? 
Who  shall  say  it?  Not  he  who  feels  the  life 
of  his  people  stirring  within  his  own.  Shall  he 
say,  '  That  way  events  are  wending,  I  will  not 
resist '  ?  His  very  soul  is  resistance,  and  is  as 
a  seed  of  fire  that  may  enkindle  the  souls  of 
multitudes,  and  make  a  new  pathway  for 
events." 

"  I  don't  deny  patriotism,"  said  Gideon,  "  but 
we  all  know  you  have  a  particular  meaning, 
Mordecai.  You  know  Mordecai's  way  of  think- 
ing, I  suppose."  Here  Gideon  had  turned  to 
Deronda,  who  sat  next  to  him;  but  without 
waiting  for  an  answer,  he  went  on:  "I'm  a 
rational  Jew  myself.  I  stand  by  my  people  as 
a  sort  of  family  relations,  and  I  am  for  keeping 
up  our  worship  in  a  rational  way.  I  don't  ap- 
prove of  our  people  getting  baptized,  because 
1  don't  believe  in  a  Jew's  conversion  to  the 
Gentile  part  of  Christianity.  And  now  we  have 
political  equality,  there 's  no  excuse  for  a  pre- 
tence of  that  sort.  But  I  am  for  getting  rid  of 
all  our  superstitions  and  exclusiveness.  There 's 
no  reason  now  why  we  should  n't  melt  gradually 
into  the  populations  we  live  among.  That 's  the 
order  of  the  day  in  point  of  progress.    I  would 


REVELATIONS 


363 


as  soon  my  children  married  Christians  as  Jews. 
And  I 'm  for  the  old  maxim,  '  A  man's  country 
is  where  he 's  well  off.'  " 

"  That  country 's  not  so  easy  to  find,  Gideon," 
said  the  rapid  Pash,  with  a  shrug  and  grimace. 
"  You  get  ten  shillings  a  week  more  than  I  do, 
and  have  only  half  the  number  of  children.  If 
somebody  will  introduce  a  brisk  trade  in  watches 
among  the  '  Jerusalem  wares,'  I  '11  go  —  eh, 
Mordecai,  what  do  you  say?" 

Deronda,  all  ear  for  these  hints  of  Mordecai' s 
opinion,  was  inwardly  wondering  at  his  persist- 
ence in  coming  to  this  club.  For  an  enthusiastic 
spirit  to  meet  continually  the  fixed  indifference 
of  men  familiar  with  the  object  of  his  enthusi- 
asm is  the  acceptance  of  a  slow^  martyrdom,  be- 
side which  the  fate  of  a  missionary  tomahawked 
without  any  considerate  rejection  of  his  doc- 
trines seems  hardly  worthy  of  compassion.  But 
Mordecai  gave  no  sign  of  shrinking:  this  was 
a  moment  of  spiritual  fulness,  and  he  cared  more 
for  the  utterance  of  his  faith  than  for  its  im- 
mediate reception.  With  a  fervour  which  had  no 
temper  in  it,  but  seemed  rather  the  rush  of  feel- 
ing in  the  opportunity  of  speech,  he  answered 
Pash:  — 

"  What  I  say  is,  let  every  man  keep  far  away 
from  the  brotherhood  and  the  inheritance  he 
despises.  Thousands  on  thousands  of  our  race 
have  mixed  with  the  Gentile  as  Celt  with  Saxon, 
and  they  may  inherit  the  blessing  that  belongs 
to  the  Gentile.  You  cannot  follow  them.  You 
are  one  of  the  multitudes  over  this  globe  who 
must  walk  among  the  nations  and  be  known  as 
Jews,  and  with  words  on  their  lips  which  mean, 


364  DANIEL  DEKONDA 


'  I  wish  I  had  not  been  born  a  Jew,  I  disown 
any  bond  with  the  long  travail  of  my  race,  I 
will  outdo  the  Gentile  in  mocking  at  our  sepa- 
rateness,'  they  all  the  while  feel  breathing  on 
them  the  breath  of  contempt  because  they  are 
J ews,  and  they  will  breathe  it  back  poisonously. 
Can  a  fresh-made  garment  of  citizenship  weave 
itself  straightway  into  the  flesh  and  change  the 
slow  deposit  of  eighteen  centuries?  What  is  the 
citizenship  of  him  who  walks  among  a  people 
he  has  no  hearty  kindred  and  fellowship  with, 
and  has  lost  the  sense  of  brotherhood  with  his 
own  race?  It  is  a  charter  of  selfish  ambition 
and  rivalry  in  low  greed.  He  is  an  alien  in 
spirit,  whatever  he  may  be  in  form;  he  sucks 
the  blood  of  mankind,  he  is  not  a  man.  Shar- 
ing in  no  love,  sharing  in  no  subjection  of  the 
soul,  he  mocks  at  all.  Is  it  not  truth  I  speak, 
Pash?" 

"  Not  exactly,  Mordecai,"  said  Pash,  "  if  you 
mean  that  I  think  the  worse  of  myself  for 
being  a  Jew.  What  I  thank  our  fathers  for 
is  that  there  are  fewer  blockheads  among  us 
than  among  other  races.  But  perhaps  you  are 
right  in  thinking  the  Christians  don't  like  me 
so  well  for  it." 

"  Catholics  and  Protestants  have  not  liked 
each  other  much  better,"  said  the  genial  Gideon. 
"  We  must  wait  patiently  for  prejudices  to  die 
out.  Many  of  our  people  are  on  a  footing  with 
the  best,  and  there 's  been  a  good  filtering  of  our 
blood  into  high  families.  I  am  for  making  our 
expectations  rational." 

"  And  so  am  I !  "  said  Mordecai,  quickly, 
leaning  forward  with  the  eagerness  of  one  who 


REVELATIONS  365 


pleads  in  some  decisive  crisis,  his  long  thin  hands 
clasped  together  on  his  lap.  "  I  too  claim  to  be 
a  rational  Jew.  But  what  is  it  to  be  rational,  — 
what  is  it  to  feel  the  light  of  the  divine  reason 
growing  stronger  within  and  without?  It  is  to 
see  more  and  more  of  the  hidden  bonds  that  bind 
and  consecrate  change  as  a  dependent  growth,  — 
yea,  consecrate  it  with  kinship :  the  past  becomes 
my  parent,  and  the  future  stretches  towards  me 
the  appealing  arms  of  children.  Is  it  rational  to 
drain  away  the  sap  of  special  kindred  that  makes 
the  families  of  man  rich  in  interchanged  wealth, 
and  various  as  the  forests  are  various  with  the 
glory  of  the  cedar  and  the  palm?  When  it  is 
rational  to  say,  '  I  know  not  my  father  or  my 
mother,  let  my  children  be  aliens  to  me,  that  no 
prayer  of  mine  may  touch  them,'  then  it  will  be 
rational  for  the  Jew  to  say,  '  I  will  seek  to  know 
no  difference  between  me  and  the  Gentile,  I  will 
not  cherish  the  prophetic  consciousness  of  our 
nationality,  —  let  the  Hebrew  cease  to  be,  and 
let  all  his  memorials  be  antiquarian  trifles,  dead 
as  the  wall-paintings  of  a  conjectured  race.  Yet 
let  his  child  learn  by  rote  the  speech  of  the  Greek, 
where  he  adjures  his  fellow-citizens  by  the 
bravery  of  those  who  fought  foremost  at  Mara- 
thon, —  let  him  learn  to  say,  that  was  noble  in 
the  Greek,  that  is  the  spirit  of  an  immortal 
nation!  But  the  Jew  has  no  memories  that  bind 
him  to  action;  let  him  laugh  that  his  nation  is 
degraded  from  a  nation;  let  him  hold  the  monu- 
ments of  his  law  which  carried  within  its  frame 
the  breath  of  social  justice,  of  charity,  and  of 
household  sanctities,  —  let  him  hold  the  energy 
of  the  prophets,  the  patient  care  of  the  Masters, 


366  DANIEL  DERONDA 


the  fortitude  of  martyred  generations,  as  mere 
stuff  for  a  professorship.  The  business  of  the 
Jew  in  all  things  is  to  be  even  as  the  rich 
Gentile.'  " 

Mordecai  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  and 
there  was  a  moment's  silence.  Not  one  member 
of  the  club  shared  his  point  of  view  or  his  emo- 
tion; but  his  whole  personality  and  speech  had 
on  them  the  effect  of  a  dramatic  representation 
which  had  some  pathos  in  it,  though  no  practical 
consequences;  and  usually  he  was  at  once  in- 
dulged and  contradicted.  Deronda's  mind  went 
back  on  what  must  have  been  the  tragic  pressure 
of  outward  conditions  hindering  this  man,  whose 
force  he  felt  to  be  telling  on  himself,  from  mak- 
ing any  world  for  his  thought  in  the  minds  of 
others,  —  like  a  poet  among  people  of  a  strange 
speech,  who  may  have  a  poetry  of  their  own,  but 
have  no  ear  for  his  cadence,  no  answering  thrill 
to  his  discovery  of  latent  virtues  in  his  mother 
tongue. 

The  cool  Buchan  was  the  first  to  speak,  and 
hint  the  loss  of  time.  "  I  submit,"  said  he,  "  that 
ye  're  travelling  away  from  the  questions  I  put 
concerning  progress." 

"Say  they  're  levanting,  Buchan,"  said  Miller, 
who  liked  his  joke,  and  would  not  have  objected 
to  be  called  Voltairian.  "  Never  mind.  Let  us 
have  a  Jewish  night;  we 've  not  had  one  for  a 
long  while.  Let  us  take  the  discussion  on  Jewish 
ground.  I  suppose  we've  no  prejudice  here; 
we  're  all  philosophers;  and  we  like  our  friends 
Mordecai,  Pash,  and  Gideon,  as  well  as  if  they 
were  no  more  kin  to  Abraham  than  the  rest  of  us. 
We  're  all  related  through  Adam,  until  further 


REVELATIONS 


367 


showing  to  the  contrary,  and  if  you  look  into  his- 
tory we  Ve  all  got  some  discreditable  forefathers. 
So  I  mean  no  offence  when  I  say  I  don't  think 
any  great  things  of  the  part  the  Jewish  people 
have  played  in  the  world.  What  then?  I  think 
they  were  iniquitously  dealt  by  in  past  time^. 
And  I  suppose  we  don't  want  any  men  to  be 
maltreated,  white,  black,  brown,  or  yellow,  — 
I  know  I 've  just  given  my  half-crown  to  the 
contrary.  And  that  reminds  me,  I 've  a  curious 
old  German  book,  —  I  can't  read  it  myself,  but 
a  friend  was  reading  out  of  it  to  me  the  other 
day,  —  about  the  prejudices  against  the  Jews, 
and  the  stories  used  to  be  told  against  'em,  and 
what  do  you  think  one  was  ?  Why,  that  they  're 
punished  with  a  bad  odour  in  their  bodies;  and 
that,  says  the  author,  date  1715  (I 've  just  been 
pricing  and  marking  the  book  this  very  morning) 
—  that  is  true,  for  the  ancients  spoke  of  it.  But 
then,  he  says,  the  other  things  are  fables,  such  as 
that  the  odour  goes  away  all  at  once  when 
they  're  baptized,  and  that  every  one  of  the  ten 
tribes,  mind  you,  all  the  ten  being  concerned  in 
the  crucifixion,  has  got  a  particular  punishment 
over  and  above  the  smell;  Asher,  I  remember, 
has  the  right  arm  a  handbreadth  shorter  than  the 
left,  and  Naphtali  has  pigs'  ears  and  a  smell  of 
live  pork.  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  There 's 
been  a  good  deal  of  fun  made  of  rabbinical 
fables,  but  in  point  of  fables  my  opinion  is,  that 
all  over  the  world  it 's  six  of  one  and  half-a-dozen 
of  the  other.  However,  as  I  said  before,  I  hold 
with  the  philosophers  of  the  last  century  that  the 
Jews  have  played  no  great  part  as  a  people, 
though  Pash  will  have  it  they  're  clever  enough 


/ 


368  DANIEL  DERONDA 

to  beat  all  the  rest  of  the  world.  But  if  so,  I  ask, 
why  have  n't  they  done  it?  " 

"For  the  same  reason  that  the  cleverest  men 
in  the  country  don't  get  themselves  or  their  ideas 
into  Parliament,"  said  the  ready  Pash;  ''be- 
cause the  blockheads  are  too  many  for  'em." 

"  That  is  a  vain  question,"  said  Mordecai, 
"  whether  our  people  would  beat  the  rest  of  the 
world.  Each  nation  has  its  own  work,  and  is  a 
member  of  the  world,  enriched  by  the  work  of 
each.  But  it  is  true,  as  Jehuda-ha-Levi  first  said, 
that  Israel  is  the  heart  of  mankind^  if  we  mean 
by  heart  the  core  of  affection  which  binds  a  race 
and  its  families  in  dutiful  love,  and  the  reverence 
for  the  human  body  which  lifts  the  needs  of  our 
animal  life  into  religion,  and  the  tenderness 
which  is  merciful  to  the  poor  and  weak  and  to 
the  dumb  creature  that  wears  the  yoke  for  us." 

"  They  're  not  behind  any  nation  in  arro- 
gance," said  Lilly;  "and  if  they  have  got  in 
the  rear,  it  has  not  been  because  they  were  over- 
modest." 

"  Oh,  every  nation  brags  in  its  turn,"  said 
Miller. 

"  Yes,"  said  Pash;  "  and  some  of  them  in  the 
Hebrew  text." 

"  Well,  whatever  the  Jews  contributed  at  one 
time,  they  are  a  stand-still  people,"  said  Lilly. 
"  They  are  the  type  of  obstinate  adherence  to 
the  superannuated.  They  may  show  good  abili- 
ties when  they  take  up  liberal  ideas,  but  as  a 
race  they  have  no  development  in  them." 

"  That  is  false!  "  said  Mordecai,  leaning  for- 
ward again  with  his  former  eagerness.  "  Let 
their  history  be  known  and  examined;  let  the 


REVELATIONS  369 


seed  be  sifted,  let  its  beginning  be  traced  to  the 
weed  of  the  wilderness,  —  the  more  glorious  will 
be  the  energy  that  transformed  it.  Where  else 
is  there  a  nation  of  whom  it  may  be  as  truly  said 
that  their  religion  and  law  and  moral  life  mingled 
as  the  stream  of  blood  in  the  heart  and  made  one 
growth,  —  where  else  a  people  who  kept  and  en- 
larged their  spiritual  store  at  the  very  time  when 
they  were  hunted  with  a  hatred  as  fierce  as  the 
forest  fires  that  chase  the  wild  beast  from  his 
covert?  There  is  a  fable  of  the  Roman,  that 
swimming  to  save  his  life  he  held  the  roll  of  his 
writings  between  his  teeth  and  saved  them  from 
the  waters.  But  how  much  more  than  that  is 
true  of  our  race?  They  struggled  to  keep  their 
place  among  the  nations  like  heroes,  —  yea, 
when  the  hand  was  hacked  off,  they  clung  with 
the  teeth;  but  when  the  plough  and  the  harrow 
had  passed  over  the  last  visible  signs  of  their 
national  covenant,  and  the  fruit  fulness  of  their 
land  was  stifled  with  the  blood  of  the  sowers  and 
planters,  they  said,  '  The  spirit  is  alive,  let  us 
make  it  a  lasting  habitation,  —  lasting  because 
movable,  —  so  that  it  may  be  carried  from  gen- 
eration to  generation,  and  our  sons  unborn  may 
be  rich  in  the  things  that  have  been,  and  possess 
a  hope  built  on  an  unchangeable  foundation.' 
They  said  it  and  they  wrought  it,  though  often 
breathing  with  scant  life,  as  in  a  coffin,  or  as 
lying  wounded  amid  a  heap  of  slain.  Hooted 
and  scared  like  the  unknown  dog,  the  Hebrew 
made  himself  envied  for  his  wealth  and  wisdom, 
and  was  bled  of  them  to  fill  the  bath  of  Gentile 
luxury;  he  absorbed  knowledge,  he  diffused  it; 
his  dispersed  race  was  a  new  Phoenicia  working 

VOL.  xni  —  24) 


370  DANIEL  DERONDA 

the  mines  of  Greece  and  carrying  their  products 
to  the  world.  The  native  spirit  of  our  tradition 
was  not  to  stand  still,  but  to  use  records  as  a  seed, 
and  draw  out  the  compressed  virtues  of  law  and 
prophecy ;  and  while  the  Gentile,  who  had  said, 
'  What  is  yours  is  ours,  and  no  longer  yours,' 
was  reading  the  letter  of  our  law  as  a  dark  in- 
scription, or  was  turning  its  parchments  into 
shoe-soles  for  an  army  rabid  with  lust  and  cru- 
elty, our  Masters  were  still  enlarging  and  illum- 
inating with  fresh- fed  interpretation.  But  the 
dispersion  was  wide,  the  yoke  of  oppression  was 
a  spiked  torture  as  well  as  a  load;  the  exile  was 
forced  afar  among  brutish  people,  where  the  con- 
sciousness of  his  race  was  no  clearer  to  him  than 
the  light  of  the  sun  to  our  fathers  in  the  Roman 
persecution,  who  had  their  hiding-place  in  a  cave, 
and  knew  not  that  it  was  day  save  by  the  dimmer 
burning  of  their  candles.  What  wonder  that 
multitudes  of  our  people  are  ignorant,  narrow, 
superstitious?   What  wonder?  " 

Here  Mordecai,  whose  seat  was  next  the  fire- 
place, rose  and  leaned  his  arm  on  the  little  shelf ; 
his  excitement  had  risen,  though  his  voice,  which 
had  begun  with  unusual  strength,  was  getting 
hoarser. 

"  What  wonder?  The  night  is  unto  them,  that . 
they  have  no  vision;  in  their  darkness  they  are 
unable  to  divine;  the  sun  is  gone  down  over  the 
prophets,  and  the  day  is  dark  above  them ;  their 
observances  are  as  nameless  relics.  But  which 
among  the  chief  of  the  Gentile  nations  has  not 
an  ignorant  multitude?  They  scorn  our  people's 
ignorant  observance;  but  the  most  accursed  ig- 
norance is  that  which  has  no  observance,  —  sunk 


REVELATIONS  871 


to  the  cunning  greed  of  the  fox,  to  which  all  law 
is  no  more  than  a  trap  or  the  cry  of  the  worrying 
hound.  There  is  a  degradation  deep  down  below 
the  memory  that  has  withered  into  superstition. 
In  the  multitudes  of  the  ignorant  on  three  conti- 
nents who  observe  our  rites  and  make  the  confes- 
sion of  the  divine  Unity,  the  soul  of  Judaism  is 
not  dead.  Revive  the  organic  centre:  let  the 
unity  of  Israel  which  has  made  the  growth  and 
form  of  its  religion  be  an  outward  reality.  Look- 
ing towards  a  land  and  a  polity,  our  dispersed 
people  in  all  the  ends  of  the  earth  may  share  the 
dignity  of  a  national  life  which  has  a  voice  among 
the  peoples  of  the  East  and  the  West,  —  which 
will  plant  the  wisdom  and  skill  of  our  race  so 
that  it  may  be,  as  of  old,  a  medium  of  trans- 
mission and  understanding.  Let  that  come  to 
pass,  and  the  living  warmth  will  spread  to  the 
weak  extremities  of  Israel,  and  superstition  will 
vanish,  not  in  the  lawlessness  of  the  renegade, 
but  in  the  illumination  of  great  facts  which  widen 
feeling,  and  make  all  knowledge  alive  as  the 
young  offspring  of  beloved  memories." 

Mordecai's  voice  had  sunk,  but  with  the  hectic 
brilliancy  of  his  gaze  it  was  not  the  less  im- 
pressive. His  extraordinary  excitement  was 
certainly  due  to  Deronda's  presence:  it  was  to 
Deronda  that  he  was  speaking,  and  the  moment 
had  a  testamentary  solemnity  for  him,  which 
rallied  all  his  powers.  Yet  the  presence  of  those 
other  familiar  men  promoted  expression,  for 
they  embodied  the  indifference  which  gave  a  re- 
sistant energy  to  his  speech.  Not  that  he  looked 
at  Deronda:  he  seemed  to  see  nothing  immedi- 
ately around  him,  and  if  any  one  had  grasped 


372  DANIEL  DERONDA 


him  he  would  probably  not  have  known  it. 
Again  the  former  words  came  back  to  Deronda's 
mind.:  "  You  must  hope  my  hopes  —  see  the 
vision  I  point  to  —  behold  a  glory  where  I  be- 
hold it."  They  came  now  with  gathered  pathos. 
Before  him  stood,  as  a  living,  suffering  reality, 
what  hitherto  he  had  only  seen  as  an  effort  of 
imagination,  which,  in  its  comparative  faintness, 
yet  carried  a  suspicion  of  being  exaggerated: 
a  man  steeped  in  poverty  and  obscurity  weak- 
ened by  disease,  consciously  within  the  shadow 
of  advancing  death,  but  living  an  intense  life  in 
an  invisible  past  and  future,  careless  of  his  per- 
sonal lot,  except  for  its  possibly  making  some 
obstruction  to  a  conceived  good  which  he  would 
never  share  except  as  a  brief  inward  vision,  — 
a  day  afar  off,  whose  sun  would  never  warm  him, 
but  into  which  he  threw  his  soul's  desire,  with  a 
passion  often  wanting  to  the  personal  motives 
of  healthy  youth.  It  was  something  more  than 
a  grandiose  transfiguration  of  the  parental  love 
that  toils,  renounces,  endures,  resists  the  suicidal 
promptings  of  despair,  —  all  because  of  the  little 
ones,  whose  future  becomes  present  to  the  yearn- 
ing gaze  of  anxiety. 

All  eyes  were  fixed  on  Mordecai  as  he  sat 
down  again,  and  none  with  unkindness:  but  it 
happened  that  the  one  who  felt  the  most  kindly 
was  the  most  prompted  to  speak  in  opposition. 
This  was  the  genial  and  rational  Gideon,  who 
also  was  not  without  a  sense  that  he  was  address- 
ing the  guest  of  the  evening.   He  said,  — 

"  You  have  your  own  way  of  looking  at  things, 
Mordecai,  and,  as  you  say,  your  own  way  seems 
to  you  rational.   I  know  you  don't  hold  with  the 


REVELATIONS  373 


restoration  to  Judaea  by  miracle,  and  so  on;  but 
you  are  as  well  aware  as  I  am  that  the  subject 
has  been  mixed  with  a  heap  of  nonsense  both  by 
Jews  and  Christians.  And  as  to  the  connection 
of  our  race  with  Palestine,  it  has  been  perverted 
by  superstition  till  it 's  as  demoralizing  as  the 
old  poor-law.  The  raff  and  scum  go  there  to  be 
maintained  like  able-bodied  paupers,  and  to  be 
taken  special  care  of  by  the  angel  Gabriel  when 
they  die.  It 's  no  use  fighting  against  facts. 
We  must  look  where  they  point :  that 's  what 
I  call  rationality.  The  most  learned  and  liberal 
men  among  us  who  are  attached  to  our  religion 
are  for  clearing  our  liturgy  of  all  such  notions  as 
a  literal  fulfilment  of  the  prophecies  about  resto- 
ration, and  so  on.  Prune  it  of  a  few  useless  rites 
and  literal  interpretations  of  that  sort,  and  our 
religion  is  the  simplest  of  all  religions,  and 
makes  no  barrier,  but  a  union,  between  us  and  the 
rest  of  the  world." 

"  As  plain  as  a  pike-staff,"  said  Pash,  with  an 
ironical  laugh.  "  You  pluck  it  up  by  the  roots, 
strip  off  the  leaves  and  bark,  shave  off  the  knots, 
and  smooth  it  at  top  and  bottom;  put  it  where 
you  will,  it  will  do  no  harm,  it  will  never  sprout. 
You  may  make  a  handle  of  it,  or  you  may  throw 
it  on  the  bonfire  of  scoured  rubbish.  I  don't  see 
why  our  rubbish  is  to  be  held  sacred  any  more 
than  the  rubbish  of  Brahmanism  or  Bouddhism." 

"  No,"  said  Mordecai,  "  no,  Pash,  because  you 
have  lost  the  heart  of  the  Jew.  Community  was 
felt  before  it  was  called  good.  I  praise  no  super- 
stition, I  praise  the  living  fountains  of  enlarging 
belief.  What  is  growth,  completion,  develop- 
ment?  You  began  with  that  question,  I  apply 


( 

374  DANIEL  DERONDA 

it  to  the  history  of  our  people.  I  say  that  the 
effect  of  our  separateness  will  not  be  completed 
and  have  its  highest  transformation  unless  our 
race  takes  on  again  the  character  of  a  nationality. 
That  is  the  fulfilment  of  the  religious  trust  that 
moulded  them  into  a  people,  whose  life  has  made 
half  the  inspiration  of  the  world.  What  is  it  to 
me  that  the  ten  tribes  are  lost  untraceably,  or 
that  multitudes  of  the  children  of  Judah  have 
mixed  themselves  with  the  Gentile  populations 
as  a  river  with  rivers?  Behold  our  people  still! 
Their  skirts  spread  afar ;  they  are  torn  and  soiled 
and  trodden  on;  but  there  is  a  jewelled  breast- 
plate. Let  the  wealthy  men,  the  monarchs  of 
commerce,  the  learned  in  all  knowledge,  the  skil- 
ful in  all  arts,  the  speakers,  the  political  coun- 
sellors, who  carry  in  their  veins  the  Hebrew  blood 
which  has  maintained  its  vigour  in  all  climates, 
and  the  pliancy  of  the  Hebrew  genius  for  which 
difficulty  means  new  device,  —  let  them  say, 
'  We  will  lift  up  a  standard,  we  will  unite  in  a 
labour  hard  but  glorious  like  that  of  Moses  and 
Ezra,  a  labour  which  shall  be  a  worthy  fruit  of 
the  long  anguish  whereby  our  fathers  main- 
tained their  separateness,  refusing  the  ease  of 
falsehood.'  They  have  wealth  enough  to  redeem 
the  soil  from  debauched  and  paupered  con- 
querors ;  they  have  the  skill  of  the  statesman  to 
devise,  the  tongue  of  the  orator  to  persuade.  And 
is  there  no  prophet  or  poet  among  us  to  make  the 
ears  of  Christian  Europe  tingle  with  shame  at 
the  hideous  obloquy  of  Christian  strife  which  the 
Turk  gazes  at  as  at  the  fighting  of  beasts  to 
which  he  has  lent  an  arena?  There  is  store  of 
wisdom  among  us  to  found  a  new  Jewish  polity, 


REVELATIONS  375 


grand,  simple,  just,  like  the  old,  —  a  republic 
where  there  is  equality  of  protection,  an  equality 
which  shone  like  a  star  on  the  forehead  of  our 
ancient  community,  and  gave  it  more  than  the 
brightness  of  Western  freedom  amid  the  despot- 
isms of  the  East.  Then  our  race  shall  have  an 
organic  centre,  a  heart  and  brain  to  watch  and 
guide  and  execute ;  the  outraged  Jew  shall  have 
a  defence  in  the  court  of  nations,  as  the  outraged 
Englishman  or  American.  And  the  world  will 
gain  as  Israel  gains.  For  there  will  be  a  com- 
munity in  the  van  of  the  East  which  carries  the 
culture  and  the  sympathies  of  every  great  nation 
in  its  bosom ;  there  will  be  a  land  set  for  a  halting- 
place  of  enmities,  a  neutral  ground  for  the  East 
as  Belgium  is  for  the  West.  Difficulties?  I 
know  there  are  difficulties.  But  let  the  spirit  of 
sublime  achievement  move  in  the  great  among 
our  people,  and  the  work  will  begin." 

"  Ay,  we  may  safely  admit  that,  Mordecai," 
said  Pash.  "  When  there  are  great  men  on 
'Change,  and  high-flying  professors  converted 
to  your  doctrine,  difficulties  will  vanish  like 
smoke." 

Deronda,  inclined  by  nature  to  take  the  side 
of  those  on  whom  the  arrows  of  scorn  were  fall- 
ing, could  not  help  replying  to  Pash's  outfling, 
and.  said,  — 

"  If  we  look  back  to  the  history  of  efforts 
which  have  made  great  changes,  it  is  astonishing 
how  many  of  them  seemed  hopeless  to  those  who 
looked  on  in  the  beginning.  Take  what  we  have 
all  heard  and  seen  something  of,  —  the  effort 
after  the  unity  of  Italy,  which  we  are  sure  soon 
to  see  accomplished  to  the  very  last  boundary. 


376         DANIEL  DERONDA 


Look  into  Mazzini's  account  of  his  first  yearn- 
ing, when  he  was  a  boy,  after  a  restored  great- 
ness and  a  new  freedom  to  Italy,  and  of  his  first 
efforts  as  a  young  man  to  rouse  the  same  feel- 
ings in  other  young  men,  and  get  them  to  work 
towards  a  united  nationality.  Almost  every- 
thing seemed  against  him :  his  countrymen  were 
ignorant  or  indifferent,  governments  hostile, 
Europe  incredulous.  Of  course  the  scorners 
often  seemed  wise.  Yet  you  see  the  prophecy 
lay  with  him.  As  long  as  there  is  a  remnant 
of  national  consciousness,  I  suppose  nobody 
will  deny  that  there  may  be  a  new  stirring  of 
memories  and  hopes  which  may  inspire  arduous 
action." 

"  Amen,"  said  Mordecai,  to  whom  Deronda's 
words  were  a  cordial.  "  What  is  needed  is  the 
leaven,  —  what  is  needed  is  the  seed  of  fire.  The 
heritage  of  Israel  is  beating  in  the  pulses  of  mil- 
lions; it  lives  in  their  veins  as  a  power  without 
understanding,  like  the  morning  exultation  of 
herds ;  it  is  the  inborn  half  of  memory,  moving 
as  in  a  dream  among  writings  on  the  walls,  which 
it  sees  dimly  but  cannot  divide  into  speech.  Let 
the  torch  of  visible  community  be  lit!  Let  the 
reason  of  Israel  disclose  itself  in  a  great  outward 
deed,  and  let  there  be  another  great  migration, 
another  choosing  of  Israel  to  be  a  nationality 
whose  members  may  still  stretch  to  the  ends  of 
the  earth,  even  as  the  sons  of  England  and  Ger- 
many, whom  enterprise  carries  afar,  but  who 
still  have  a  national  hearth  and  a  tribunal  of  na- 
tional opinion.  Will  any  say  '  It  cannot  be  '  ? 
Baruch  Spinoza  had  not  a  faithful  Jewish  heart, 
though  he  had  sucked  the  life  of  his  intellect  at 


REVELATIONS 


377 


the  breasts  of  Jewish  tradition.  He  laid  bare  his 
father's  nakedness  and  said,  '  They  who  scorn 
him  have  the  higher  wisdom.'  Yet  Baruch 
Spinoza  confessed,  he  saw  not  why  Israel  should 
not  again  be  a  chosen  nation.  Who  says  that  the 
history  and  literature  of  our  race  are  dead  ?  Are 
they  not  as  living  as  the  history  and  literature  of 
Greece  and  Rome,  which  have  inspired  revolu- 
tions, enkindled  the  thought  of  Europe,  and 
made  the  unrighteous  powers  tremble?  These 
were  an  inheritance  dug  from  the  tomb.  Ours 
is  an  inheritance  that  has  never  ceased  to  quiver 
in  millions  of  human  frames." 

Mordecai  had  stretched  his  arms  upward,  and 
his  long  thin  hands  quivered  in  the  air  for  a 
moment  after  he  had  ceased  to  speak.  Gideon 
was  certainly  a  little  moved,  for  though  there 
was  no  long  pause  before  he  made  a  remark  in 
objection,  his  tone  was  more  mild  and  depreca- 
tory than  before;  Pash,  meanwhile,  pressing  his 
lips  together,  rubbing  his  black  head  with  both 
his  Ijands,  and  wrinkling  his  brow  horizontally, 
with  the  expression  of  one  who  differs  from 
every  speaker,  but  does  not  think  it  worth  while 
to  say  so.  There  is  a  sort  of  human  paste  that 
when  it  comes  near  the  fire  of  enthusiasm  is  only 
baked  into  harder  shape. 

"  It  may  seem  well  enough  on  one  side  to 
make  so  much  of  our  memories  and  inheritance 
as  you  do,  Mordecai,"  said  Gideon;  "  but  there 's 
another  side.  It  is  n't  all  gratitude  and  harmless 
glory.  Our  people  have  inherited  a  good  deal 
of  hatred.  There 's  a  pretty  lot  of  curses  still 
flying  about,  and  stiff  settled  rancour  inherited 
from  the  times  of  persecution.    How  will  you 


378  DANIEL  DERONDA 


justify  keeping  one  sort  of  memory  and  throw- 
ing away  the  other?  There  are  ugly  debts  stand- 
ing on  both  sides." 

"  I  justify  the  choice  as  all  other  choice  is  jus- 
tified," said  Mordecai.  "  I  cherish  nothing  for 
the  Jewish  nation,  I  seek  nothing  for  them,  but 
the  good  which  promises  good  to  all  the  nations. 
The  spirit  of  our  religious  life,  which  is  one  with 
our  national  life,  is  not  hatred  of  aught  but 
wrong.  The  Masters  have  said,  an  offence 
against  man  is  worse  than  an  offence  against 
God.  But  what  wonder  if  there  is  hatred  in  the 
breasts  of  Jews,  who  are  children  of  the  igno- 
rant and  oppressed,  —  what  wonder,  since  there 
is  hatred  in  the  breasts  of  Christians?  Our  na- 
tional life  was  a  growing  light.  Let  the  central 
fire  be  kindled  again,  and  the  light  will  reach 
afar.  The  degraded  and  scorned  of  our  race 
will  learn  to  think  of  their  sacred  land,  not  as  a 
place  for  saintly  beggary  to  await  death  in  loath- 
some idleness,  but  as  a  republic  where  the  Jewish 
spirit  manifests  itself  in  a  new  order  founded  on 
the  old,  purified,  enriched  by  the  experience  our 
greatest  sons  have  gathered  from  the  life  of  the 
ages.  How  long  is  it?  —  only  two  centuries 
since  a  vessel  carried  over  the  ocean  the  begin- 
ning of  the  great  North  American  nation.  The 
people  grew  like  meeting  waters,  —  they  were 
various  in  habit  and  sect,  —  there  came  a  time, 
a  century  ago,  when  they  needed  a  polity,  and 
there  were  heroes  of  peace  among  them.  What 
had  they  to  form  a  polity  with  but  memories  of 
Europe,  corrected  by  the  vision  of  a  better?  Let 
our  wise  and  wealthy  show  themselves  heroes. 
They  have  the  memories  of  the  East  and  West, 


REVELATIONS 


379 


and  they  have  the  full  vision  of  a  better.  A  new 
Persia  with  a  purified  religion  magnified  itself 
in  art  and  wisdom.  So  will  a  new  Judaea,  poised 
between  East  and  West,  —  a  covenant  of  recon- 
ciliation. Will  any  say,  the  prophetic  vision  of 
your  race  has  been  hopelessly  mixed  with  folly 
and  bigotry;  the  angel  of  progress  has  no  mes- 
sage for  Judaism,  —  it  is  a  half -buried  city  for 
the  paid  workers  to  lay  open,  —  the  waters  are 
rushing  by  it  as  a  forsaken  field?  I  say  that  the 
strongest  principle  of  growth  lies  in  human 
choice.  The  sons  of  Judah  have  to  choose  that 
God  may  again  choose  them.  The  Messianic 
time  is  the  time  when  Israel  shall  will  the  plant- 
ing of  the  national  ensign.  The  Nile  overflowed 
and  rushed  onward:  the  Egyptian  could  not 
choose  the  overflow,  but  he  chose  to  work  and 
make  channels  for  the  fructifying  waters,  and 
Egypt  became  the  land  of  corn.  Shall  man, 
whose  soul  is  set  in  the  royalty  of  discernment 
and  resolve,  deny  his  rank  and  say,  I  am  an  on- 
looker, ask  no  choice  or  purpose  of  me  ?  That  is 
the  blasphemy  of  this  time.  The  divine  principle 
of  our  race  is  action,  choice,  resolved  memory. 
Let  us  contradict  the  blasphemy,  and  help  to 
will  our  own  better  future  and  the  better  future 
of  the  world,  —  not  renounce  our  higher  gift 
and  say,  '  Let  us  be  as  if  we  were  not  among 
the  populations,'  but  choose  our  full  heritage, 
claim  the  brotherhood  of  our  nation,  and  carry 
into  it  a  new  brotherhood  with  the  nations  of 
the  Gentiles.  The  vision  is  there;  it  will  be 
fulfilled." 

With  the  last  sentence,  which  was  no  more 
than  a  loud  whisper,  Mordecai  let  his  chin  sink 


380  DANIEL  DERONDA 

on  his  breast  and  his  eyelids  fall.  No  one 
spoke.  It  was  not  the  first  time  that  he  had 
insisted  on  the  same  ideas,  but  he  was  seen  to- 
night in  a  new  phase.  The  quiet  tenacity  of 
his  ordinary  self  differed  as  much  from  his  pres- 
ent exaltation  of  mood  as  a  man  in  private  talk, 
giving  reasons  for  a  revolution  of  which  no  sign 
is  discernible,  differs  from  one  who  feels  him- 
self an  agent  in  a  revolution  begun.  The  dawn 
of  fulfilment  brought  to  his  hope  by  Deronda's 
presence  had  wrought  Mordecai's  conception 
into  a  state  of  impassioned  conviction,  and  he 
had  found  strength  in  his  excitement  to  pour 
forth  the  unlocked  floods  of  emotive  argument, 
with  a  sense  of  haste  as  at  a  crisis  which  must 
be  seized.  But  now  there  had  come  with  the 
quiescence  of  fatigue  a  sort  of  thankful  wonder 
that  he  had  spoken,  —  a  contemplation  of  his 
life  as  a  journey  which  had  come  at  last  to  this 
bourne.  After  a  great  excitement,  the  ebbing 
strength  of  impulse  is  apt  to  leave  us  in  this 
aloofness  from  our  active  self.  And  in  the 
moments  after  Mordecai  had  sunk  his  head,  his 
mind  was  wandering  along  the  paths  of  his 
youth,  and  all  the  hopes  which  had  ended  in 
bringing  him  hither. 

Every  one  felt  that  the  talk  was  ended,  and 
the  tone  of  phlegmatic  discussion  made  unsea- 
sonable, by  Mordecai's  high-pitched  solemnity. 
It  was  as  if  they  had  come  together  to  hear 
the  blowing  of  the  shophar,  and  had  nothing 
to  do  now  but  to  disperse.  The  movement 
was  unusually  general,  and  in  less  than  ten 
minutes  the  room  was  empty  of  all  except 
Mordecai  and  Deronda.    "  Good-nights  "  had 


REVELATIONS  381 


been  given  to  Mordecai,  but  it  was  evident  he 
had  not  heard  them,  for  he  remained  rapt  and 
motionless.  Deronda  would  not  disturb  this 
needful  rest,  but  waited  for  a  spontaneous 
movement. 


CHAPTER  III 


My  spirit  is  too  weak;  mortaUty 
Weighs  heavily  on  me  like  unwilUng  sleep. 
And  each  imagined  pinnacle  and  steep 
Of  godUke  hardship  tells  me  I  must  die 
Like  a  sick  eagle  looking  at  the  sky. 


FTER  a  few  minutes  the  unwonted  still- 


ness had  penetrated  Mordecai's  conscious 


ness,  and  he  looked  up  at  Deronda,  not 
in  the  least  with  bewilderment  and  surprise,  but 
with  a  gaze  full  of  reposing  satisfaction.  De- 
ronda rose  and  placed  his  chair  nearer,  where 
there  could  be  no  imagined  need  for  raising  the 
voice.  Mordecai  felt  the  action  as  a  patient  feels 
the  gentleness  that  eases  his  pillow.  He  began 
to  speak  in  a  low  tone,  as  if  he  were  only  think- 
ing articulately,  not  trying  to  reach  an  audience. 

"  In  the  doctrine  of  the  Cabala,  souls  are  born 
again  and  again  in  new  bodies  till  they  are  per- 
fected and  purified,  and  a  soul  liberated  from 
a  worn-out  body  may  join  the  fellow-soul  that 
needs  it,  that  they  may  be  perfected  together, 
and  their  earthly  work  accomplished.  Then 
they  will  depart  from  the  mortal  region,  and 
leave  place  for  new  souls  to  be  born  out  of  the 
store  in  the  eternal  bosom.  It  is  the  lingering 
imperfection  of  the  souls  already  born  into  the 
mortal  region  that  hinders  the  birth  of  new  souls 
and  the  preparation  of  the  Messianic  time :  thus 
the  mind  has  given  shape  to  what  is  hidden,  as 
the  shadow  of  what  is  known,  and  has  spoken 


Keats. 


REVELATIONS  383 


truth,  though  it  were  only  in  parable.  When 
my  long-wandering  soul  is  liberated  from  this 
weary  body,  it  will  join  yours,  and  its  work  will 
be  perfected." 

Mordecai's  pause  seemed  an  appeal  which 
Deronda's  feeling  would  not  let  him  leave  un- 
answered. He  tried  to  make  it  truthful;  but 
for  Mordecai's  ear  it  was  inevitably  filled  with 
unspoken  meanings.    He  only  said,  — 

"  Everything  I  can  in  conscience  do  to  make 
your  life  effective  I  will  do." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Mordecai,  in  the  tone  of 
quiet  certainty  which  dispenses  with  further 
assurance.  "  I  heard  it.  You  see  it  all,  —  you 
are  by  my  side  on  the  mount  of  vision,  and 
behold  the  paths  of  fulfilment  which  others 
deny." 

He  was  silent  a  moment  or  two,  and  then 
went  on  meditatively,  — 

"  You  will  take  up  my  life  where  it  was 
broken.  I  feel  myself  back  in  that  day  when 
my  life  was  broken.  The  bright  morning  sun 
was  on  the  quay  —  it  was  at  Trieste  —  the  gar- 
ments of  men  from  all  nations  shone  like  jewels 
—  the  boats  were  pushing  off  —  the  Greek  vessel 
that  would  land  us  at  Beyrout  was  to  start  in 
an  hour.  I  was  going  with  a  merchant  as  his 
clerk  and  companion.  I  said,  I  shall  behold  the 
lands  and  people  of  the  East,  and  I  shall  speak 
with  a  fuller  vision.  I  breathed  then  as  you 
do,  without  labour;  I  had  the  light  step  and 
the  endurance  of  youth;  I  could  fast,  I  could 
sleep  on  the  hard  ground.  I  had  wedded  pov- 
erty, and  I  loved  my  bride  —  for  poverty  to 
me  was  freedom.   My  heart  exulted  as  if  it  had 


384  DANIEL  DERONDA 


been  the  heart  of  Moses  ben  Maimon,  strong 
with  the  strength  of  threescore  years,  and  know- 
ing the  work  that  was  to  fill  them.  It  was  the 
first  time  I  had  been  south:  the  soul  within 
me  felt  its  former  sun;  and  standing  on  the 
quay,  where  the  ground  I  stood  on  seemed  to 
send  forth  light,  and  the  shadows  had  an  azure 
glory  as  of  spirits  become  visible,  I  felt  myself 
in  the  flood  of  a  glorious  life,  wherein  my  own 
small  year-counted  existence  seemed  to  melt, 
so  that  I  knew  it  not;  and  a  great  sob  arose 
within  me  as  at  the  rush  of  waters  that  were 
too  strong  a  bliss.  So  I  stood  there  awaiting 
my  companion;  and  I  saw  him  not  till  he  said: 
*  Ezra,  I  have  been  to  the  post  and  there  is  your 
letter.'  " 

"  Ezra !  "  exclaimed  Deronda,  unable  to  eon- 
tain  himself. 

"  Ezra,"  repeated  Mordecai,  affirmatively,  en- 
grossed in  memory.  "  I  was  expecting  a  letter; 
for  I  wrote  continually  to  my  mother.  And 
that  sound  of  my  name  was  like  the  touch  of 
a  wand  that  recalled  me  to  the  body  wherefrom 
I  had  been  released  as  it  were  to  mingle  with 
the  ocean  of  human  existence,  free  from  the 
pressure  of  individual  bondage.  I  opened  the 
letter;  and  the  name  came  again  as  a  cry  that 
would  have  disturbed  me  in  the  bosom  of 
heaven,  and  made  me  yearn  to  reach  where  that 
sorrow  was,  —  '  Ezra,  my  son ! '  " 

Mordecai  paused  again,  his  imagination  ar- 
rested by  the  grasp  of  that  long-past  moment. 
Deronda's  mind  was  almost  breathlessly  sus- 
pended on  what  was  coming.  A  strange  possi- 
bility had  suddenly  presented  itself.  Mordecai's 


REVELATIONS  385 


eyes  were  cast  down  in  abstracted  contempla- 
tion, and  in  a  few  moments  he  went  on,  — 

"  She  was  a  mother  of  whom  it  might  have 
come,  —  yea,  might  have  come  to  be  said,  '  Her 
children  arise  up  and  call  her  blessed.'  In  her 
I  understood  the  meaning  of  that  Master  who, 
perceiving  the  footsteps  of  his  mother,  rose  up 
and  said,  '  The  majesty  of  the  Eternal  cometh 
near ! '  And  that  letter  was  her  cry  from  the 
depths  of  anguish  and  desolation  —  the  cry  of 
a  mother  robbed  of  her  little  one.  I  was  her 
eldest.  Death  had  taken  four  babes,  one  after 
the  other.  Then  came  late  my  little  sister,  who 
was  more  than  all  the  rest  the  desire  of  her 
mother's  eyes;  and  the  letter  was  a  piercing 
cry  to  me,  —  '  Ezra,  my  son,  I  am  robbed  of  her. 
He  has  taken  her  away  and  left  disgrace  be- 
hind. They  will  never  come  again.'  "  —  Here 
Mordecai  lifted  his  eyes  suddenly,  laid  his  hand 
on  Deronda's  arm,  and  said:  "  Mine  was  the  lot 
of  Israel.  For  the  sin  of  the  father  my  soul 
must  go  into  exile.  For  the  sin  of  the  father 
the  work  was  broken,  and  the  day  of  fulfilment 
delayed.  She  who  bore  me  was  desolate,  dis- 
graced, destitute.  I  turned  back.  On  the  in- 
stant I  turned,  —  her  spirit,  and  the  spirit  of 
her  fathers,  who  had  worthy  Jewish  hearts, 
moved  within  me,  and  drew  me.  God,  in  whom 
dwells  the  universe,  was  within  me  as  the 
strength  of  obedience.  I  turned  and  travelled 
with  hardship  —  to  save  the  scant  money  which 
she  would  need.  I  left  the  sunshine,  and  trav- 
elled into  freezing  cold.  In  the  last  stage  I 
spent  a  night  in  exposure  to  cold  and  snow. 
And  that  was  the  beginning  of  this  slow  death." 

VOL.  XIII  —  25 


386  DANIEL  DERONDA 


Mordecai  let  his  eyes  wander  again,  and  re- 
moved his  hand.  Deronda  resolutely  repressed 
the  questions  which  urged  themselves  within  him. 
While  Mordecai  was  in  this  state  of  emotion,  no 
other  confidence  must  be  sought  than  what  came 
spontaneously:  nay,  he  himself  felt  a  kindred 
emotion  which  made  him  dread  his  own  speech 
as  too  momentous. 

"  But  I  worked.  We  were  destitute  —  every- 
thing had  been  seized.  And  she  was  ill:  the 
clutch  of  anguish  was  too  strong  for  her,  and 
wrought  with  some  lurking  disease.  At  times 
she  could  not  stand  for  the  beating  of  her  heart, 
and  the  images  in  her  brain  became  as  cham- 
bers of  terror,  where  she  beheld  my  sister  reared 
in  evil.  In  the  dead  of  night  I  head  her  crying 
for  her  child.  Then  I  rose,  and  we  stretched 
forth  our  arms  together  and  prayed.  We  poured 
forth  our  souls  in  desire  that  Mirah  might  be 
delivered  from  evil." 

"  Mirah?  "  Deronda  repeated,  wishing  to  as- 
sure himself  that  his  ears  had  not  been  deceived 
by  a  forecasting  imagination.  "  Did  you  say 
Mirah?" 

"  That  was  my  little  sister's  name.  After  we 
had  prayed  for  her  my  mother  would  rest  awhile. 
It  lasted  hardly  four  years,  and  in  the  minutes 
before  she  died,  we  were  praying  the  same 
prayer,  —  I  aloud,  she  silently.  Her  soul  went 
out  upon  its  wings." 

"  Have  you  never  since  heard  of  your  sister?  " 
said  Deronda,  as  quietly  as  he  could. 

"  Never.  Never  have  I  heard  whether  she 
was  delivered  according  to  our  prayer.  I  know 
not,  I  know  not.  Who  shall  say  where  the  path- 


REVELATIONS  387 

V 

ways  lie?  The  poisonous  will  of  the  wicked  is 
strong.  It  poisoned  my  life  —  it  is  slowly  sti- 
fling this  breath.  Death  delivered  my  mother, 
and  I  felt  it  a  blessedness  that  I  was  alone  in 
the  winters  of  suffering.  But  what  are  the 
winters  now?  —  they  are  far  off  "  —  here  Mor- 
decai  again  rested  his  hand  on  Deronda's  arm, 
and  looked  at  him  with  that  joy  of  the  hectic 
patient  which  pierces  us  to  sadness,  —  "  there  is 
nothing  to  wail  in  the  withering  of  my  body. 
The  work  will  be  the  better  done.  Once  I  said, 
the  work  of  this  beginning  is  mine,  I  am  born 
to  do  it.  Well,  I  shall  do  it.  I  shall  live  in 
you.    I  shall  live  in  you." 

His  grasp  had  become  convulsive  in  its  force ; 
and  Deronda,  agitated  as  he  had  never  been 
before,  —  the  certainty  that  this  was  Mirah's 
brother  suffusing  his  own  strange  relation  to 
Mordecai  with  a  new  solemnity  and  tenderness, 
—  felt  his  strong  young  heart  beating  faster 
and  his  lips  paling.  He  shrank  from  speech. 
He  feared,  in  Mordecai's  present  state  of  ex- 
altation (already  an  alarming  strain  on  his 
feeble  frame),  to  utter  a  word  of  revelation 
about  Mirah.  He  feared  to  make  an  answer 
below  that  high  pitch  of  expectation  which  re- 
sembled a  flash  from  a  dying  fire,  making 
watchers  fear  to  see  it  dying  the  faster.  His 
dominant  impulse  was  to  do  as  he  had  once 
done  before:  he  laid  his  firm  gentle  hand  on  the 
hand  that  grasped  him.  Mordecai's,  as  if  it 
had  a  soul  of  its  own,  —  for  he  was  not  distinctly 
willing  to  do  what  he  did,  —  relaxed  its  grasp, 
and  turned  upward  under  Deronda's.  As  the 
two  palms  met  and  pressed  each  other,  Mordecai 


388  DANIEL  DERONDA 


recovered  some  sense  of  his  surroundings  and 
said,  — 

"  Let  us  go  now.   I  cannot  talk  any  longer." 

And  in  fact  they  parted  at  Cohen's  door 
without  having  spoken  to  each  other  again, — 
merely  with  another  pressure  of  the  hands. 

Deronda  felt  a  weight  on  him  which  was  half 
joy,  half  anxiety.  The  joy  of  finding  in  Mirah's 
brother  a  nature  even  more  than  worthy  of  that 
relation  to  her,  had  the  weight  of  solenmity  and 
sadness:  the  reunion  of  brother  and  sister  was 
in  reality  the  first  stage  of  a  supreme  parting, 
—  like  that  farewell  kiss  which  resembles  greet- 
ing, that  last  glance  of  love  which  becomes  the 
sharpest  pang  of  sorrow.  Then  there  was  the 
weight  of  anxiety  about  the  revelation  of  the 
fact  on  both  sides,  and  the  arrangements  it 
would  be  desirable  to  make  beforehand.  I  sup- 
pose we. should  all  have  felt  as  Deronda  did, 
without  sinking  into  snobbishness  or  the  notion 
that  the  primal  duties  of  life  demand  a  morn- 
ing and  an  evening  suit,  that  it  was  an  admis- 
sible desire  to  free  Mirah's  first  meeting  with 
her  brother  from  all  jarring  outward  conditions. 
His  own  sense  of  deliverance  from  the  dreaded 
relationship  of  the  other  Cohens,  notwithstand- 
ing their  good  nature,  made  him  resolve  if  pos- 
sible to  keep  them  in  the  background  for  Mirah, 
until  her  acquaintance  with  them  would  be  an 
unmarred  rendering  of  gratitude  for  any  kind- 
ness they  had  shown  towards  her  brother.  On 
all  accounts  he  wished  to  give  Mordecai  sur- 
roundings not  only  more  suited  to  his  frail  bodily 
condition,  but  less  of  a  hindrance  to  easy  inter- 
course, even  apart  from  the  decisive  prospect  of 


REVELATIONS  389 


Mirah's  taking  up  her  abode  with  her  brother, 
and  tending  him  through  the  precious  remnant 
of  his  life.  In  the  heroic  drama,  great  recogni- 
tions are  not  encumbered  with  these  details ;  and 
certainly  Deronda  had  as  reverential  an  interest 
in  Mordecai  and  Mirah  as  he  could  have  had  in 
the  offspring  of  Agamemnon;  but  he  was  car- 
ing for  destinies  still  moving  in  the  dim  streets 
of  our  earthly  life,  not  yet  lifted  among  the 
constellations,  and  his  task  presented  itself  to 
him  as  difficult  and  delicate,  especially  in  per- 
suading Mordecai  to  change  his  abode  and  habits. 
Concerning  Mirah's  feeling  and  resolve  he  had 
no  doubt:  there  would  be  a  complete  union  of 
sentiment  towards  the  departed  mother,  and 
Mirah  would  understand  her  brother's  great- 
ness. Yes,  greatness :  that  was  the  word  which 
Deronda  now  deliberately  chose  to  signify  the 
impression  that  Mordecai  made  on  Jiim.  He 
said  to  himself,  perhaps  rather  defiantly  towards 
the  more  negative  spirit  within  him,  that  this 
man,  however  erratic  some  of  his  interpretations 
might  be,  —  this  consumptive  Jewish  workman 
in  threadbare  clothing,  lodged  by  charity,  de- 
livering himself  to  hearers  who  took  his  thoughts 
without  attaching  more  consequences  to  them 
than  the  Flemings  to  the  ethereal  chimes  ring- 
ing above  their  market-places,  —  had  the  chief 
elements  of  greatness:  a  mind  consciously,  en- 
ergetically moving  with  the  larger  march  of 
human  destinies,  but  not  the  less  full  of  con- 
science and  tender  heart  for  the  footsteps  that 
tread  near  and  need  a  leaning-place;  capable 
of  conceiving  and  choosing  a  life's  task  with 
far-off  issues,  yet  capable  of  the  unapplauded 


390  DANIEL  DERONDA 


heroism  which  turns  off  the  road  of  achievement 
at  the  call  of  the  nearer  duty  whose  effect  lies 
within  the  beatings  of  the  hearts  that  are  close 
to  us,  as  the  hunger  of  the  unfledged  bird  to 
the  breast  of  its  parent. 

Deronda  to-night  was  stirred  with  the  feeling 
that  the  brief  remnant  of  this  fervid  life  had 
become  his  charge.  He  had  been  peculiarly 
wrought  on  by  what  he  had  seen  at  the  club  of 
the  friendly  indifference  which  JNIordecai  must 
have  gone  on  encountering.  His  own  experi- 
ence of  the  small  room  that  ardour  can  make 
for  itself  in  ordinary  minds  had  had  the  effect 
of  increasing  his  reserve;  and  while  tolerance 
was  the  easiest  attitude  to  him,  there  was  an- 
other bent  in  him  also  capable  of  becoming  a 
weakness,  —  the  dislike  to  appear  exceptional 
or  to  risk  an  ineffective  insistence  on  his  own 
opinion.  But  such  caution  appeared  contempt- 
ible to  him  just  now,  when  he  for  the  first  time 
saw  in  a  complete  picture  and  felt  as  a  reahty 
the  lives  that  burn  themselves  out  in  solitary 
enthusiasm:  martyrs  of  obscure  circumstance, 
exiled  in  the  rarity  of  their  o^vn  minds,  whose 
deliverances  in  other  ears  are  no  more  than  a 
long  passionate  soliloquy,  —  unless  perhaps  at 
last,  when  they  are  nearing  the  invisible  shores, 
signs  of  recognition  and  fulfilment  may  pene- 
trate the  cloud  of  loneliness ;  or  perhaps  it  may 
be  with  them  as  with  the  dying  Copernicus 
made  to  touch  the  first  printed  copy  of  bis  book 
when  the  sense  of  touch  was  gone,  seeing  it 
only  as  a  dim  object  through  the  deepening 
dusk. 

Deronda  had  been  brought  near  to  one  of 


REVELATIONS  391 


those  spiritual  exiles,  and  it  was  in  his  nature 
to  feel  the  relation  as  a  strong  claim,  nay,  to 
feel  his  imagination  moving  without  repugnance 
in  the  direction  of  Mordecai's  desires.  With  all 
his  latent  objection  to  schemes  only  definite  in 
their  generality  and  nebulous  in  detail,  —  in  the 
poise  of  his  sentiments  he  felt  at  one  with  this 
man  who  had  made  a  visionary  selection  of  him : 
the  lines  of  what  may  be  called  their  emotional 
theory  touched.  He  had  not  the  Jewish  con- 
sciousness, but  he  had  a  yearning,  grown  the 
stronger  for  the  denial  which  had  been  his  griev- 
ance, after  the  obligation  of  avowed  filial  and 
social  ties.  His  feeling  was  ready  for  difficult 
obedience.  In  this  way  it  came  that  he  set 
about  his  new  task  ungrudgingly;  and  again 
he  thought  of  Mrs.  Meyrick  as  his  chief  helper. 
To  her  first  he  must  make  known  the  discovery 
of  Mirah's  brother,  and  with  her  he  must  con- 
sult on  all  preliminaries  of  bringing  the  mu- 
tually lost  together.  Happily  the  best  quarter 
for  a  consumptive  patient  did  not  lie  too  far  off 
the  small  house  at  Chelsea,  and  the  first  office 
Deronda  had  to  perform  for  this  Hebrew 
prophet  who  claimed  him  as  a  spirtual  inheritor 
was  to  get  him  a  healthy  lodging.  Such  is  the 
irony  of  earthly  mixtures,  that  the  heroes  have 
not  always  had  carpets  and  teacups  of  their 
own;  and,  seen  through  the  open  window  by 
the  mackerel-vender,  may  have  been  invited  with 
some  hopefulness  to  pay  three  hundred  per  cent 
in  the  form  of  fourpence.  However,  Deronda's 
mind  was  busy  with  a  prospective  arrangement 
for  giving  a  furnished  lodging  some  faint  like- 
ness to  a  refined  home  by  dismantling  his  own 


392  DANIEL  DERONDA 


chambers  of  his  best  old  books  in  vellum,  his 
easiest  chair,  and  the  bas-reliefs  of  Milton  and 
Dante. 

But  was  not  Mirah  to  be  there?  What  furni- 
ture can  give  such  finish  to  a  room  as  a  tender 
woman's  face?  —  and  is  there  any  harmony  of 
tints  that  has  such  stirrings  of  delight  as  the 
sweet  modulations  of  her  voice?  Here  is  one 
good,  at  least,  thought  Deronda,  that  comes  to 
Mordecai  from  his  having  fixed  his  imagination 
on  me.  He  has  recovered  a  perfect  sister,  whose 
affection  is  waiting  for  him. 


END  OF  VOLUME  II  DANIEL  DERONDA 


The  University  Press,  Cambridge,  U.  S.  A. 


THE    COMPLETE    W  O  R  K  S    O  F 


GEORGE  ELIOT 


WITH  LIFE  BY  J.  W.  CROSS 


With  Pih)T()gi?a\  uki:  Ili.us  thations  fko.m 
Xeav  Dkaavixgs 

GKirrRUDK  Dkmain  ITamaiom),  R.T. 

AND 


FKi:j)EniCK  Jj.  8t()I)1)ai?i) 


DEATH  OF  GONCOURT 


^^He  cried  again — and  I  held  my  hand,  and  my  heart 
said,  'Die!'' —  and  he  sank  " 

(Page  218) 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS  OF 

GEORGE  ELIOT 

VOLUME  XIV 


DANIEL  DERONDA 

VOLUME  THREE 


BOSTON 

CHARLES  E.  LAURIAT  COMPANY 
1908 


Contents 


BOOK  SIX  {Continued) 

Page 

Revelations  V    .    .   1 

BOOK  SEVEN 
The  Mother  and  the  Son  102 

BOOK  EIGHT 
Fruit  and  Seed  228 


Daniel  Deronda 


^00&  ^iy.  {Continued) 


REVELATIONS 


CHAPTER  IV 


*•  Fairy  folk  a-listening 
Hear  the  seed  sprout  in  the  spring, 
And  for  music  to  their  dance 
Hear  the  hedgerows  wake  from  trance. 
Sap  that  trembles  into  buds 
Sending  httle  rhythmic  floods 
Of  fairy  sound  in  fairy  ears. 
Thus  all  beauty  that  appears 
Has  birth  as  sound  to  finer  sense 
And  lighter-clad  intelligence," 


ND  Gwendolen? — She  was  thinking  of 


Deronda  much  more  than  he  was  think- 


ing  of  her,  —  often  wondering  what  were 
his  ideas  "  about  things,"  and  how  his  life  was 
occupied.  But  a  lap-dog  would  be  necessarily 
at  a  loss  in  framing  to  itself  the  motives  and 
adventures  of  doghood  at  large;  and  it  was  as 
far  from  Gwendolen's  conception  that  Deronda's 
life  could  be  determined  by  the  historical  des- 
tiny of  the  Jews,  as  that  he  could  rise  into  the 
air  on  a  brazen  horse,  and  so  vanish  from  her 
horizon  in  the  form  of  a  twinkling  star. 

With  all  the  sense  of  inferiority  that  had 

VOL.  XIV  —  1 


2  DANIEL  DERONDA 


been  forced  upon  her,  it  was  inevitable  that  she 
should  imagine  a  larger  place  for  herself  in  his 
thoughts  than  she  actually  possessed.  They 
must  be  rather  old  and  wise  persons  who  are 
not  apt  to  see  their  own  anxiety  or  elation  about 
themselves  reflected  in  other  minds ;  and  Gwen- 
dolen, with  her  youth  and  inward  solitude,  may 
be  excused  for  dwelling  on  signs  of  special  in- 
terest in  her  shown  by  the  one  person  who  had 
impressed  her  with  the  feeling  of  submission, 
and  for  mistaking  the  colour  and  proportion  of 
those  signs  in  the  mind  of  Deronda. 

Meanwhile,  what  would  he  tell  her  that  she 
ought  to  do?  "  He  said,  I  must  get  more  in- 
terest in  others,  and  more  knowledge,  and  that 
I  must  care  about  the  best  things,  —  but  how 
am  I  to  begin? "  She  wondered  what  books  he 
would  tell  her  to  take  up  to  her  own  room,  and 
recalled  the  famous  writers  that  she  had  either 
not  looked  into  or  had  found  the  most  unread- 
able, with  a  half -smiling  wish  that  she  could 
mischievously  ask  Deronda  if  they  were  not  the 
books  called  "  medicine  for  the  mind."  Then 
she  repented  of  her  sauciness,  and  when  she  was 
safe  from  observation  carried  up  a  miscellaneous 
selection,  —  Descartes,  Bacon,  Locke,  Butler, 
Burke,  Guizot,  —  knowing,  as  a  clever  young 
lady  of  education,  that  these  authors  were  or- 
naments of  mankind,  feeling  sure  that  Deronda 
had  read  them,  and  hoping  that  by  dipping  into 
them  all  in  succession,  with  her  rapid  under- 
standing she  might  get  a  point  of  view  nearer 
to  his  level. 

But  it  was  astonishing  how  little  time  she 
found  for  these  vast  mental  excursions.  Con- 


REVELATIONS 


3 


stantly  she  had  to  be  on  the  scene  as  Mrs. 
Grandcourt,  and  to  feel  herself  watched  in  that 
part  by  the  exacting  eyes  of  a  husband,  who  had 
found  a  motive  to  exercise  his  tenacity,  —  that 
of  making  his  marriage  answer  all  the  ends  he 
chose,  and  with  the  more  completeness  the  more 
he  discerned  any  opposing  will  in  her.  And  she 
herself,  whatever  rebellion  might  be  going  on 
within  her,  could  not  have  made  up  her  mind 
to  failure  in  her  representation.  No  feeling  had 
yet  reconciled  her  for  a  moment  to  any  act, 
word,  or  look  that  would  be  a  confession  to  the 
world;  and  what  she  most  dreaded  in  herself 
was  any  violent  impulse  that  would  make  an 
involuntary  confession:  it  was  the  will  to  be 
silent  in  every  other  direction  that  had  thrown 
the  more  impetuosity  into  her  confidences 
towards  Deronda,  to  whom  her  thought  con- 
tinually turned  as  a  help  against  herself.  Her 
riding,  her  hunting,  her  visiting  and  receiving 
of  visits,  were  all  performed  in  a  spirit  of  achieve- 
ment which  served  instead  of  zest  and  young- 
gladness,  so  that  all  round  Diplow,  in  those 
weeks  of  the  New  Year,  Mrs.  Grandcourt  was 
regarded  as  wearing  her  honours  with  triumph. 

"  She  disguises  it  under  an  air  of  taking 
everything  as  a  matter  of  course,"  said  Mrs. 
Arrowpoint.  "  A  stranger  might  suppose  that 
she  had  condescended  rather  than  risen.  I  al- 
ways noticed  that  doubleness  in  her." 

To  her  mother  most  of  all  Gwendolen  was 
bent  on  acting  complete  satisfaction,  and  poor 
Mrs.  Davilow  was  so  far  deceived  that  she  took 
the  unexpected  distance  at  which  she  was  kept, 
in  spite  of  what  she  felt  to  be  Grandcourt's 


4  DANIEL  DERONDA 


handsome  behaviour  in  providing  for  her,  as  a 
comparative  indifference  in  her  daughter,  now 
that  marriage  had  created  new  interests.  To 
be  fetched  to  lunch  and  then  to  dinner  along 
with  the  Gascoignes,  to  be  driven  back  soon 
after  breakfast  the  next  morning,  and  to  have 
brief  calls  from  Gwendolen  in  which  her  hus- 
band waited  for  her  outside  either  on  horseback 
or  sitting  in  the  carriage,  was  all  the  intercourse 
allowed  to  the  mother. 

The  truth  was  that  the  second  time  Gwendo- 
len proposed  to  invite  her  mother  with  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Gascoigne,  Grandcourt  had  at  first  been 
silent,  and  then  drawled,  "  We  can't  be  having 
those  people  always.  Gascoigne  talks  too  much. 
Country  clergy  are  always  bores,  —  with  their 
confounded  fuss  about  everything." 

That  speech  was  full  of  foreboding  for  Gwen- 
dolen. To  have  her  mother  classed  under  "  those 
people  "  was  enough  to  confirm  the  previous 
dread  of  bringing  her  too  near.  Still,  she  could 
not  give  the  true  reasons,  —  she  could  not  say 
to  her  mother,  "  Mr.  Grandcourt  wants  to  rec- 
ognize you  as  little  as  possible;  and  besides  it 
is  better  you  should  not  see  much  of  my  married 
life,  else  you  might  find  out  that  I  am  miser- 
able." So  she  waived  as  lightly  as  she  could 
every  allusion  to  the  subject;  and  when  Mrs. 
Davilow  again  hinted  the  possibility  of  her  hav- 
ing a  house  close  to  Ryelands,  Gwendolen  said : 
"  It  would  not  be  so  nice  for  you  as  being  near 
the  Rectory  here,  mamma.  We  shall  perhaps 
be  very  little  at  Ryelands.  You  would  miss  my 
aunt  and  uncle." 

And  all  the  while  this  contemptuous  veto  of 


REVELATIONS 


5 


her  husband's  on  any  intimacy  with  her  family, 
making  her  proudly  shrink  from  giving  them 
the  aspect  of  troublesome  pensioners,  was  rous- 
ing more  inward  inclination  towards  them.  She 
had  never  felt  so  kindly  towards  her  uncle,  so 
much  disposed  to  look  back  on  his  cheerful, 
complacent  activity  and  spirit  of  kind  manage- 
ment, even  when  mistaken,  as  more  of  a  comfort 
than  the  neutral  loftiness  which  was  every  day 
chilling  her.  And  here  perhaps  she  was  uncon- 
sciously finding  some  of  that  mental  enlarge- 
ment which  it  was  hard  to  get  from  her  occasional 
dashes  into  difficult  authors,  who  instead  of 
blending  themselves  with  her  daily  agitations 
required  her  to  dismiss  them. 

It  was  a  delightful  surprise  one  day  when 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gascoigne  were  at  Offendene  to 
see  Gwendolen  ride  up  without  her  husband,  — 
with  the  groom  only.  All,  including  the  four 
girls  and  Miss  Merry,  seated  in  the  dining- 
room  at  lunch,  could  see  the  welcome  approach; 
and  even  the  elder  ones  were  not  without  some- 
thing of  Isabel's  romantic  sense  that  the  beau- 
tiful sister  on  the  splendid  chestnut,  which  held 
its  head  as  if  proud  to  bear  her,  was  a  sort  of 
Harriet  Byron  or  Miss  Wardour  reappearing 
out  of  her  "  happiness  ever  after." 

Her  uncle  went  to  the  door  to  give  her  his 
hand,  and  she  sprang  from  her  horse  with  an 
air  of  alacrity  which  might  well  encourage  that 
notion  of  guaranteed  happiness;  for  Gwendo- 
len was  particularly  bent  to-day  on  setting  her 
mother's  heart  at  rest,  and  her  unusual  sense 
of  freedom  in  being  able  to  make  this  visit  alone 
enabled  her  to  bear  up  under  the  pressure  of 


6  DANIEL  DERONDA 


painful  facts  which  were  urging  themselves 
anew.  The  seven  family  kisses  were  not  so 
tiresome  as  they  used  to  be. 

"  Mr.  Grandcourt  is  gone  out,  so  I  deter- 
mined to  fill  up  the  time  by  coming  to  you, 
mamma,"  said  Gwendolen,  as  she  laid  down  her 
hat  and  seated  herself  next  to  her  mother;  and 
then  looking  at  her  with  a  playfully  monitory 
air :  "  That  is  a  punishment  to  you  for  not 
wearing  better  lace  on  your  head.  You  did  n't 
think  I  should  come  and  detect  you,  —  you 
dreadfully  careless-about-yourself  mamma ! " 
She  gave  a  caressing  touch  to  the  dear 
head. 

"  Scold  me,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Davilow,  her 
delicate  worn  face  flushing  with  delight.  "  But 
I  wish  there  was  something  you  could  eat  after 
your  ride,  —  instead  of  these  scraps.  Let  Jo- 
cosa  make  you  a  cup  of  chocolate  in  your  old 
way.    You  used  to  like  that." 

Miss  Merry  immediately  rose  and  went  out, 
though  Gwendolen  said,  "  Oh,  no,  a  piece  of 
bread,  or  one  of  those  hard  biscuits.  I  can't 
think  about  eating.  I  am  come  to  say  good- 
ly-" 

"What!  going  to  Ry elands  again?"  said 
Mr.  Gascoigne. 

"  No,  we  are  going  to  town,"  said  Gwendolen, 
beginning  to  break  up  a  piece  of  bread,  but 
putting  no  morsel  into  her  mouth. 

"  It  is  rather  early  to  go  to  town,"  said 
Mrs.  Gascoigne,  "  and  Mr.  Grandcourt  not  in 
Parliament." 

"  Oh,  there  is  only  one  more  day's  hunting 
to  be  had,  and  Henleigh  has  some  business  in 


REVELATIONS 


7 


town  with  lawyers,  I  think,"  said  Gwendolen. 
"  I  am  very  glad.    I  shall  like  to  go  to  town." 

"  You  will  see  your  house  in  Grosvenor 
Square,"  said  Mrs.  Davilow.  She  and  the  girls 
were  devouring  with  their  eyes  every  movement 
of  their  goddess,  soon  to  vanish. 

"  Yes,"  said  Gwendolen,  in  a  tone  of  assent 
to  the  interest  of  that  expectation.  "  And  there 
is  so  much  to  be  seen  and  done  in  town." 

"  I  wish,  my  dear  Gwendolen,"  said  Mr.  Gas- 
coigne,  in  a  tone  of  cordial  advice,  "  that  you 
would  use  your  influence  with  Mr.  Grandcourt 
to  induce  him  to  enter  Parliament.  A  man  of 
his  position  should  make  his  weight  felt  in  poli- 
tics. The  best  judges  are  confident  that  the 
ministry  will  have  to  appeal  to  the  country  on 
this  question  of  further  Reform,  and  Mr.  Grand- 
court  should  be  ready  for  the  opportunity.  I 
am  not  quite  sure  that  his  opinions  and  mine 
accord  entirely;  I  have  not  heard  him  express 
himself  very  fully.  But  I  don't  look  at  the 
matter  from  that  point  of  view.  I  am  think- 
ing of  your  husband's  standing  in  the  country. 
And  he  has  now  come  to  that  stage  of  life  when 
a  man  like  him  should  enter  into  public  affairs. 
I  A  wife  has  great  influence  with  her  husband. 
Use  yours  in  that  direction,  my  dear." 

The  Rector  felt  that  he  was  acquitting  him- 
self of  a  duty  here,  and  giving  something  like 
the  aspect  of  a  public  benefit  to  his  niece's 
niatch.  To  Gwendolen  the  whole  speech  had 
the  flavour  of  bitter  comedy.  If  she  had  been 
merry,  she  must  have  laughed  at  her  uncle's 
explanation  to  her  that  he  had  not  heard 
Grandcourt  express  himself  very  fully  on  poli- 


8  DANIEL  DERONDA 


tics.  And  the  wife's  great  influence!  General 
maxims  about  husbands  and  wives  seemed  now 
of  a  precarious  usefulness.  Gwendolen  herself 
had  once  believed  in  her  future  influence  as  an 
omnipotence  in  managing  —  she  did  not  know 
exactly  what.  But  her  chief  concern  at  pres- 
ent was  to  give  an  answer  that  would  be  felt 
appropriate. 

"  I  should  be  very  glad,  uncle.  But  I  think 
Mr.  Grandcourt  would  not  like  the  trouble  of 
an  election,  —  at  least,  unless  it  could  be  with- 
out his  making  speeches.  I  thought  candidates 
always  made  speeches." 

Not  necessarily,  —  to  any  great  extent," 
said  Mr.  Gascoigne.  "  A  man  of  position  and 
weight  can  get  on  without  much  of  it.  A  county 
member  need  have  very  little  trouble  in  that 
way,  and  both  out  of  the  House  and  in  it  is 
liked  the  better  for  not  being  a  speechifier.  Tell 
Mr.  Grandcourt  that  I  say  so." 

"  Here  comes  Jocosa  with  my  chocolate,  after 
all,"  said  Gwendolen,  escaping  from  a  promise 
to  give  information  that  would  certainly  have 
been  received  in  a  way  inconceivable  to  the  good 
Rector,  who,  pushing  his  chair  a  little  aside  from 
the  table  and  crossing  his  leg,  looked  as  well 
as  felt  like  a  worthy  specimen  of  a  clergyman 
and  magistrate  giving  experienced  advice.  Mr. 
Gascoigne  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
Grandcourt  was  a  proud  man,  but  his  own  self- 
love,  calmed  through  life  by  the  consciousness 
of  his  general  value  and  personal  advantages, 
was  not  irritable  enough  to  prevent  him  from 
hoping  the  best  about  his  niece's  husband  be- 
cause her  uncle  was  kept  rather  haughtily  at  a 


REVELATIONS  9 


distance.  A  certain  aloofness  must  be  allowed 
to  the  representative  of  an  old  family;  you 
would  not  expect  him  to  be  on  intimate  terms 
even  with  abstractions.  But  Mra,^  Gascoigne 
was  less  dispassionate  on  her  husband's  account, 
and  felt  Grandcourt's  haughtiness  as  something 
a  little  blamable  in  Gwendolen. 

"  Your  uncle  and  Anna  will  very  likely  be  in 
town  about  Easter,"  she  said,  with  a  vague  sense 
of  expressing  a  slight  discontent.  "  Dear  Rex 
hopes  to  come  out  with  honours  and  a  fellow- 
ship, and  he  wants  his  father  and  Anna  to  meet 
him  in  London,  that  they  may  be  jolly  together, 
as  he  says.  I  should  n't  wonder  if  Lord  Brack- 
enshaw  invited  them,  he  has  been  so  very  kind 
since  he  came  back  to  the  Castle." 

I  hope  my  uncle  will  bring  Anna  to  stay  in 
Grosvenor  Square,"  said  Gwendolen,  risking 
herself  so  far,  for  the  sake  of  the  present  mo- 
ment, but  in  reality  wishing  that  she  might  never 
be  obliged  to  bring  any  of  her  family  near 
Grandcourt  again.  "  I  am  very  glad  of  Rex's 
good  fortune." 

"  We  must  not  be  premature,  and  rejoice  too 
much  beforehand,"  said  the  Rector,  to  whom  this 
topic  was  the  happiest  in  the  world,  and  al- 
together allowable,  now  that  the  issue  of  that 
little  affair  about  Gwendolen  had  been  so  satis- 
factory. "  Not  but  that  I  am  in  correspondence 
with  impartial  judges,  who  have  the  highest 
hopes  about  my  son,  as  a  singularly  clear-headed 
young  man.  And  of  his  excellent  disposition  and 
principle  I  have  had  the  best  evidence." 

"  We  shall  have  him  a  great  lawyer  some 
time,"  said  Mrs.  Gascoigne. 


10  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  How  very  nice !  "  said  Gwendolen,  with  a 
concealed  scepticism  as  to  niceness  in  general, 
which  made  the  word  quite  applicable  to 
lawyers. 

"  Talking  of  Lord  Brackenshaw's  kindness," 
said  Mrs.  Davilow,  "  you  don't  know  how  de- 
lightful he  has  been,  Gwendolen.  He  has 
begged  me  to  consider  myself  his  guest  in  this 
house  till  I  can  get  another  that  I  like,  —  he  did 
it  in  the  most  graceful  way.  But  now  a  house 
has  turned  up.  Old  Mr.  Jodson  is  dead,  and  we 
can  have  his  house.  It  is  just  what  I  want; 
small,  but  with  nothing  hideous  to  make  you 
miserable  thinking  about  it.  And  it  is  only  a 
mile  from  the  Rectory.  You  remember  the  low 
white  house  nearly  hidden  by  the  trees,  as  we 
turn  up  the  lane  to  the  church?  " 

"  Yes,  but  you  have  no  furniture,  poor 
mamma,"  said  Gwendolen,  in  a  melancholy  tone. 

"  Oh,  I  am  saving  money  for  that.  You  know 
who  has  made  me  rather  rich,  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Davilow,  laying  her  hand  on  Gwendolen's. 
"  And  Jocosa  really  makes  so  little  do  for  house- 
keeping, —  it  is  quite  wonderful." 

"  Oh,  please  let  me  go  upstairs  with  you  and 
arrange  my  hat,  mamma,"  said  Gwendolen,  sud- 
denly putting  up  her  hand  to  her  hair  and  per- 
haps creating  a  desired  disarrangement.  Her 
heart  was  swelling,  and  she  was  ready  to  cry. 
Her  mother  must  have  been  worse  off,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  Grandcourt.  "  I  suppose  I  shall 
never  see  all  this  again,"  said  Gwendolen,  look- 
ing round  her,  as  they  entered  the  black  and 
yellow  bedroom,  and  then  throwing  herself  into 
a  chair  in  front  of  the  glass  with  a  little  groan 


REVELATIONS  11 


as  of  bodily  fatigiie.  In  the  resolve  not  to  cry 
she  had  become  very  pale. 

"  You  are  not  well,  dear?  "  said  Mrs.  Davilow. 

"  No;  that  chocolate  has  made  me  sick,"  said 
Gwendolen,  putting  up  her  hand  to  be  taken. 

"  I  should  be  allowed  to  come  to  you  if  you 
were  ill,  darling,"  said  Mrs.  Davilow,  rather 
timidly,  as  she  pressed  the  hand  to  her  bosom. 
Something  had  made  her  sure  to-day  that  her 
child  loved  her,  —  needed  her  as  much  as  ever. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Gwendolen,  leaning  her  head 
against  her  mother,  though  speaking  as  lightly 
as  she  could.  "  But  you  know  I  never  am  ill. 
I  am  as  strong  as  possible;  and  you  must  not 
take  to  fretting  about  me,  but  make  yourself  as 
happy  as  you  can  with  the  girls.  They  are 
better  children  to  you  than  I  have  been,  you 
know."    She  turned  up  her  face  with  a  smile. 

"  You  have  always  been  good,  my  darling. 
I  remember  nothing  else." 

"  Why,  what  did  I  ever  do  that  was  good 
to  you,  except  marry  Mr.  Grandcourt?  "  said 
Gwendolen,  starting  up  with  a  desperate  resolve 
to  be  playful,  and  keep  no  more  on  the  perilous 
edge  of  agitation.  "  And  I  should  not  have 
done  that  unless  it  had  pleased  myself."  She 
tossed  up  her  chin,  and  reached  her  hat. 

"  God  forbid,  child!  I  would  not  have  had 
you  marry  for  my  sake.  Your  happiness  by 
itself  is  half  mine." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Gwendolen,  arranging  her 
hat  fastidiously,  "  then  you  will  please  to  con- 
sider that  you  are  half  happy,  which  is  more  than 
I  am  used  to  seeing  you."  With  the  last  words 
she  again  turned  with  her  old  playful  smile  to 


12  DANIEL  DERONDA 


her  mother.  "Now  I  am  ready;  but  oh, 
mamma,  Mr.  Grandcourt  gives  me  a  quantity 
of  money,  and  expects  me  to  spend  it,  and  I  can't 
spend  it;  and  you  know  I  can't  bear  charity  chil- 
dren and  all  that;  and  here  are  thirty  pounds, 
I  wish  the  girls  would  spend  it  for  me  on  little 
things  for  themselves  when  you  go  to  the  new 
house.  Tell  them  so."  Gwendolen  put  the 
notes  into  her  mother's  hand,  and  looked  away 
hastily,  moving  towards  the  door. 

"  God  bless  you,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Davilow. 
"  It  will  please  them  so  that  you  should  have 
thought  of  them  in  particular." 

"  Oh,  they  are  troublesome  things ;  but  they 
don't  trouble  me  now,"  said  Gwendolen,  turning 
and  nodding  playfully.  She  hardly  understood 
her  own  feeling  in  this  act  towards  her  sisters, 
but  at  any  rate  she  did  not  wish  it  to  be  taken  as 
anything  serious.  She  was  glad  to  have  got  out 
of  the  bedroom  without  showing  more  signs  of 
emotion,  and  she  went  through  the  rest  of  her 
visit  and  all  the  good-byes  with  a  quiet  propriety 
that  made  her  say  to  herself  sarcastically  as  she 
rode  away,  "  I  think  I  am  making  a  very  good 
Mrs.  Grandcourt." 

She  believed  that  her  husband  was  gone  to 
Gadsmere  that  day,  —  had  inferred  this,  as  she 
had  long  ago  inferred  who  were  the  inmates  of 
what  he  had  described  as  "  a  dog-hutch  of  a  place 
in  a  black  country;  "  and  the  strange  conflict  of 
feeling  within  her  had  had  the  characteristic 
effect  of  sending  her  to  Offendene  with  a  tight- 
ened resolve,  —  a  form  of  excitement  which  was 
native  to  her. 

She  wondered  at  her  own  contradictions. 


REVELATIONS  13 


Why  should  she  feel  it  bitter  to  her  that  Grand- 
court  showed  concern  for  the  beings  on  whose 
account  she  herself  was  undergoing  remorse? 
Had  she  not  before  her  marriage  inwardly  deter- 
mined to  speak  and  act  on  their  behalf  ?  —  and 
since  he  had  lately  implied  that  he  wanted  to  be 
in  town  because  he  was  making  arrangements 
about  his  will,  she  ought  to  have  been  glad  of  any 
sign  that  he  kept  a  conscience  awake  towards 
those  at  Gadsmere;  and  yet,  now  that  she  was 
a  wife,  the  sense  that  Grandcourt  was  gone  to 
Gadsmere  was  like  red  heat  near  a  burn.  She 
had  brought  on  herself  this  indignity  in  her  ovv  n 
eyes,  —  this  humiliation  of  being  doomed  to  a 
terrified  silence  lest  her  husband  should  discover 
with  what  sort  of  consciousness  she  had  married 
him;  and  as  she  had  said  to  Deronda,  she  "  must 
go  on."  After  the  intensest  moments  of  secret 
hatred  towards  this  husband  who  from  the  very 
first  had  cowed  her,  there  always  came  back  the 
spiritual  pressure  which  made  submission  inev- 
itable. There  was  no  effort  at  freedom  that 
would  not  bring  fresh  and  worse  humiliation. 
Gwendolen  could  dare  nothing  except  in  im- 
pulsive action,  —  least  of  all  could  she  dare  pre- 
meditatedly  a  vague  future  in  which  the  only 
certain  condition  was  indignity.  In  spite  of 
remorse,  it  still  seemed  the  worst  result  of  her 
marriage  that  she  should  in  any  way  make  a 
spectacle  of  herself ;  and  her  humiliation  was 
lightened  by  her  thinking  that  only  Mrs.  Glasher 
was  aware  of  the  fact  which  caused  it.  For 
Gwendolen  had  never  referred  the  interview  at 
the  Whispering  Stones  to  Lush's  agency;  her 
disposition   to   vague   terror   investing  with 


14  DANIEL  DERONDA 


shadowy  omnipresence  any  threat  of  fatal  power 
over  her,  and  so  hindering  her  from  imagining 
plans  and  channels  by  which  news  had  been  con- 
veyed to  the  woman  who  had  the  poisoning  skill 
of  a  sorceress.  To  Gwendolen's  mind  the  secret 
lay  with  Mrs.  Glasher,  and  there  were  words  in 
the  horrible  letter  which  implied  that  Mrs. 
Glasher  would  dread  disclosure  to  the  husband 
as  much  as  the  usurping  Mrs.  Grandcourt. 

Something  else,  too,  she  thought  of  as  more 
of  a  secret  from  her  husband  than  it  really  was, 
—  namely,  that  suppressed  struggle  of  desper- 
ate rebellion  which  she  herself  dreaded.  Grand- 
court  could  not  indeed  fully  imagine  how  things 
affected  Gwendolen;  he  had  no  imagination  of 
anything  in  her  but  what  affected  the  gratifica- 
tion of  his  own  will ;  but  on  this  point  he  had  the 
sensibility  which  seems  like  divination.  What 
we  see  exclusively  we  are  apt  to  see  with  some 
mistake  of  proportions  and  Grandcourt  was 
not  likely  to  be  infallible  in  his  judgments  con- 
cerning this  wife  who  was  governed  by  many 
shadowy  powers,  to  him  non-existent.  He  mag- 
nified her  inward  resistance,  but  that  did  not 
lessen  his  satisfaction  in  the  mastery  of  it. 


CHAPTER  V 


"Behold  my  lady's  carriage  stop  the  way, 
With  powdered  lackey  and  with  champing  bay: 
She  sweeps  the  matting,  treads  the  crimson  stair. 
Her  arduous  function  solely  'to  be  there.' 
Like  Sirius  rising  o'er  the  silent  sea, 
She  hides  her  heart  in  lustre  loftily." 

SO  the  Grandcourts  were  in  Grosvenor 
Square  in  time  to  receive  a  card  for  the 
musical  party  at  Lady  MalHnger's,  there 
being  reasons  of  business  which  made  Sir  Hugo 
know  beforehand  that  his  ill-beloved  nephew  was 
coming  up.  It  was  only  the  third  evening  after 
their  arrival,  and  Gwendolen  made  rather  an 
absent-minded  acquaintance  with  her  new  ceil- 
ings and  furniture,  preoccupied  with  the  cer- 
tainty that  she  was  going  to  speak  to  Deronda 
again,  and  also  to  see  the  Miss  Lapidoth  who 
had  gone  through  so  much,  and  was  "  capable 
of  submitting  to  anything  in  the  form  of  duty." 
For  Gwendolen  had  remembered  nearly  every 
word  that  Deronda  had  said  about  Mirah,  and 
especially  that  phrase,  which  she  repeated  to  her- 
self bitterly,  having  an  ill-defined  consciousness 
that  her  own  submission  was  something  very 
different.  She  would  have  been  obliged  to  allow, 
if  any  one  had  said  it  to  her,  that  what  she  suby 
mitted  to  could  not  take  the  shape  of  duty,  but 
was  submission  to  a  yoke  drawn  on  her  by  an 
action  she  was  ashamed  of,  and  worn  with  a 
strength  of  selfish  motives  that  left  no  weight 
for  duty  to  carry. 


16  DANIEL  DERONDA 


The  drawing-rooms  in  Park  Lane,  all  white, 
gold,  and  pale  crimson,  were  agreeably  fur- 
nished, and  not  crowded  with  guests,  before  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Grandcourt  entered;  and  more  than 
half  an  hour  of  instrumental  music  was  being 
followed  by  an  interval  of  movement  and  chat. 
Klesmer  was  there  with  his  wife,  and  in  his  gen- 
erous interest  for  Mirah  he  proposed  to  accom- 
pany her  singing  of  Leo's  O  patria  mia,  which 
he  had  before  recommended  her  to  choose,  as 
more  distinctive  of  her  than  better  known  music. 
He  was  already  at  the  piano,  and  Mirah  was 
standing  there  conspicuously,  when  Gwendolen, 
magnificent  in  her  pale  green  velvet  and  poi- 
soned diamonds,  was  ushered  to  a  seat  of  honour 
well  in  view  of  them.  With  her  long  sight  and 
self-command  she  had  the  rare  power  of  quickly 
distinguishing  persons  and  objects  on  entering 
a  full  room,  and  while  turning  her  glance 
towards  Mirah  she  did  not  neglect  to  exchange 
a  bow  and  smile  with  Klesmer  as  she  passed. 
The  smile  seemed  to  each  a  lightning-flash  back 
on  that  morning  when  it  had  been  her  ambition 
to  stand  as  the  "  little  Jewess  "  was  standing, 
and  survey  a  grand  audience  from  the  higher 
rank  of  her  talent,  —  instead  of  which  she  was 
one  of  the  ordinary  crowd  in  silk  and  gems, 
whose  utmost  performance  it  must  be  to  admire 
or  find  fault.  "  He  thinks  I  am  in  the  right  road 
now,"  said  the  lurking  resentment  within  her. 

Gwendolen  had  not  caught  sight  of  Deronda 
in  her  passage,  and  while  she  was  seated  acquit- 
ting herself  in  chat  with  Sir  Hugo,  she  glanced 
round  her  with  careful  ease,  bowing  a  recognition 
here  and  there,  and  fearful  lest  an  anxious- 


REVELATIONS  17 


looking  exploration  in  search  of  Deronda  might 
be  observed  by  her  husband,  and  afterwards  re- 
buked as  something  "  damnably  vulgar."  But 
all  travelling,  even  that  of  a  slow  gradual  glance 
round  a  room,  brings  a  liability  to  undesired 
encounters,  and  amongst  the  eyes  that  met 
Gwendolen's,  forcing  her  into  a  slight  bow,  were 
those  of  the  "  amateur  too  fond  of  Meyerbeer," 
Mr.  Lush,  whom  Sir  Hugo  continued  to  find 
useful  as  a  half-caste  among  gentlemen.  He 
was  standing  near  her  husband,  who,  however, 
turned  a  shoulder  towards  him,  and  was  being 
understood  to  listen  to  Lord  Pentreath.  How 
was  it  that  at  this  moment,  for  the  first  time, 
there  darted  through  Gwendolen,  like  a  dis- 
agreeable sensation,  the  idea  that  this  man  knew 
all  about  her  husband's  life?  He  had  been  ban- 
ished from  her  sight,  according  to  her  will,  and 
she  had  been  satisfied ;  he  had  sunk  entirely  into 
the  background  of  her  thoughts,  screened  away 
from  her  by  the  agitating  figures  that  kept  up 
an  inward  drama  in  which  Lush  had  no  place. 
Here  suddenly  he  reappeared  at  her  husband's 
elbow,  and  there  sprang  up  in  her,  like  an  in- 
stantaneously fabricated  memory  in  a  dream, 
the  sense  of  his  being  connected  with  the  secrets 
that  made  her  wretched.  She  was  conscious  of 
effort  in  turning  her  head  away  from  him,  try- 
ing to  continue  her  wandering  survey  as  if  she 
had  seen  nothing  of  more  consequence  than  the 
picture  on  the  wall,  till  she  discovered  Deronda. 
But  he  was  not  looking  towards  her,  and  she 
withdrew  her  eyes  from  him,  without  having 
got  any  recognition,  consohng  herself  with  the 
assurance  that  he  must  have  seen  her  come  in. 

VOL.  XIV  —  2 


18  DANIEL  DERONDA 


In  fact,  he  was  standing  not  far  from  the  door 
with  Hans  Meyrick,  whom  he  had  been  careful 
to  bring  into  Lady  Mallinger's  list.  They  were 
both  a  little  more  anxious  than  was  comfortable 
lest  Mirah  should  not  be  heard  to  advantage. 
Deronda  even  felt  himself  on  the  brink  of  be- 
traying emotion,  Mirah's  presence  now  being 
linked  with  crowding  images  of  what  had  gone  ' 
before  and  was  to  come  after,  —  all  centring  in 
the  brother  whom  he  was  soon  to  reveal  to  her; 
and  he  had  escaped  as  soon  as  he  could  from 
the  side  of  Lady  Pentreath,  who  had  said  in 
her  violoncello  voice,  — 

"  Well,  your  Jewess  is  pretty,  —  there 's  no 
denying  that.  But  where  is  her  Jewish  impu- 
dence? She  looks  as  demure  as  a  nun.  I  sup- 
pose she  learned  that  on  the  stage." 

He  was  beginning  to  feel  on  Mirah's  behalf 
something  of  what  he  had  felt  for  himself  in  his 
seraphic  boyish  time,  when  Sir  Hugo  asked  him 
if  he  would  like  to  be  a  great  singer,  —  an  in- 
dignant dislike  to  her  being  remarked  on  in  a 
free  and  easy  way,  as  if  she  were  an  imported 
commodity  disdainfully  paid  for  by  the  fashion- 
able public;  and  he  winced  the  more  because 
Mordecai,  he  knew,  would  feel  that  the  name 
"  Jewess  "  was  taken  as  a  sort  of  stamp  like 
the  lettering  of  Chinese  silk.  In  this  susceptible 
mood  he  saw  the  Grandcourts  enter,  and  was 
immediately  appealed  to  by  Hans  about  "  that 
Vandyke  duchess  of  a  beauty."  Pray  excuse 
Deronda  that  in  this  moment  he  felt  a  transient 
renewal  of  his  first  repulsion  from  Gwendolen, 
as  if  she  and  her  beauty  and  her  failings  were 
to  blame  for  the  undervaluing  of  Mirah  as  a 


REVELATIONS  19 


woman,  —  a  feeling  something  like  class  ani- 
mosity, which  affection  for  what  is  not  fully 
recognized  by  others,  whether  in  persons  or  in 
poetry,  rarely  allows  us  to  escape.  To  Hans  ad- 
miring Gwendolen  with  his  habitual  hyperbole, 
he  answered,  with  a  sarcasm  that  was  not  quite 
good-humoured,  — 

"  I  thought  you  could  admire  no  style  of 
woman  but  your  Berenice." 

"  That  is  the  style  I  worship,  —  not  admire," 
said  Hans.  "  Other  styles  of  woman  I  might 
make  myself  wicked  for,  but  for  Berenice  I 
could  make  myself  —  well,  pretty  good,  which 
is  something  much  more  difficult." 

"Hush!"  said  Deronda,  under  the  pretext 
that  the  singing  was  going  to  begin.  He  was 
not  so  delighted  with  the  answer  as  might  have 
been  expected,  and  was  relieved  by  Hans's 
movement  to  a  more  advanced  spot. 

Deronda  had  never  before  heard  Mirah  sing 
O  patria  mia.  He  knew  well  Leopardi's  fine 
Ode  to  Italy  (when  Italy  sat  like  a  disconsolate 
mother  in  chains,  hiding  her  face  on  her  knees 
and  weeping),  and  the  few  selected  words  were 
filled  for  him  with  the  grandeur  of  the  whole, 
which  seemed  to  breathe  as  inspiration  through 
the  music.  Mirah  singing  this,  made  Mordecai 
more  than  ever  one  presence  with  her.  Certain 
words  not  included  in  the  song  nevertheless 
rang  within  Deronda  as  harmonies  from  one 
invisible  — 

"Non  ti  difende 
Nessun  de'  tuoi  ?    L'armi,  qua  rarmi :  io  solo 
Combattero  procombero  sol  io  "  ^  — 


^  "  Do  none  of  thy  children  defend  thee  ?  Arms !  bring  me  anns ! 
alone  I  will  fight,  alone  I  will  fall." 


20  DANIEL  DERONDA 


they  seemed  the  very  voice  of  that  heroic  passion 
which  is  falsely  said  to  devote  itself  in  vain  when 
it  achieves  the  godlike  end  of  manifesting  un- 
selfish love.  And  that  passion  was  present  to 
Deronda  now  as  the  vivid  image  of  a  man 
dying  helplessly  away  from  the  possibility  of 
battle. 

Mir  ah  was  equal  to  his  wishes.  While  the  gen- 
eral applause  was  sounding,  Klesmer  gave  a 
more  valued  testimony,  audible  to  her  only,  — 
"  Good,  good,  —  the  crescendo  better  than  be- 
fore." But  her  chief  anxiety  was  to  know  that 
she  had  satisfied  Mr.  Deronda:  any  failure  on 
her  part  this  evening  would  have  pained  her  as 
an  especial  injury  to  him.  Of  course  all  her 
prospects  were  due  to  what  he  had  done  for  her; 
still  this  occasion  of  singing  in  the  house  that  was 
his  home  brought  a  peculiar  demand.  She 
looked  towards  him  in  the  distance,  and  he  could 
see  that  she  did ;  but  he  remained  where  he  was, 
and  watched  the  stream  of  emulous  admirers 
closing  round  her,  till  presently  they  parted  to 
make  way  for  Gwendolen,  who  was  taken  up 
to  be  introduced  by  Mrs.  Klesmer.  Easier 
now  about  "  the  little  Jewess,"  Daniel  relented 
towards  poor  Gwendolen  in  her  splendour,  and 
his  memory  went  back,  with  some  penitence  for 
his  momentary  hardness,  over  all  the  signs  and 
confessions  that  she  too  needed  a  rescue,  and  one 
much  more  difficult  than  that  of  the  wanderer 
by  the  river,  —  a  rescue  for  which  he  felt  himself 
helpless.  The  silent  question,  "  But  is  it  not 
cowardly  to  make  that  a  reason  for  turning 
away?  "  was  the  form  in  which  he  framed  his 
resolve  to  go  near  her  on  the  first  opportunity, 


REVELATIONS  21 


and  show  his  regard  for  her  past  confidence,  in 
spite  of  Sir  Hugo's  unwelcome  hints. 

Klesmer,  having  risen  to  Gwendolen  as  she 
approached,  and  being  included  by  her  in  the 
opening  conversation  with  Mirah,  continued 
near  them  a  little  while,  looking  down  with  a 
smile,  which  was  rather  in  his  eyes  than  on  his 
lips,  at  the  piquant  contrast  of  the  two  charming 
young  creatures  seated  on  the  red  divan.  The 
solicitude  seemed  to  be  all  on  the  side  of  the 
splendid  one. 

"  You  must  let  me  say  how  much  I  am  obliged 
to  you,"  said  Gwendolen.  "  I  had  heard  from 
Mr.  Deronda  that  I  should  have  a  great  treat 
in  your  singing;  but  I  was  too  ignorant  to 
imagine  how  great." 

"  You  are  very  good  to  say  so,"  answered 
Mirah,  her  mind  chiefly  occupied  in  contemplat- 
ing Gwendolen.  It  was  like  a  new  kind  of  stage- 
experience  to  her  to  be  close  to  genuine  grand 
ladies  with  genuine  brilliants  and  complexions, 
and  they  impressed  her  vaguely  as  coming  out 
of  some  unknown  drama,  in  which  their  parts 
perhaps  got  more  tragic  as  they  went  on. 

"  We  shall  all  want  to  learn  of  you,  —  I,  at 
least,"  said  Gwendolen.  "  I  sing  very  badly, 
as  Herr  Klesmer  will  tell  you,"  —  here  she 
glanced  upward  to  that  higher  power  rather 
archly,  and  continued,  —  "  but  I  have  been  re- 
buked for  not  liking  to  be  middling,  since  I 
can  be  nothing  more.  I  think  that  is  a  different 
doctrine  from  yours?  "  She  was  still  looking  at 
Klesmer,  who  said  quickly,  — 

"  Not  if  it  means  that  it  would  be  worth  while 
for  you  to  study  further,  and  for  Miss  Lapidoth 


22  DANIEL  DERONDA 


to  have  the  pleasure  of  helping  you."  With  that 
he  moved,  away,  and  Mirah,  taking  everything 
with  naive  seriousness,  said,  — 

"  If  you  think  I  could  teach  you,  I  shall  be 
very  glad.  I  am  anxious  to  teach,  but  I  have 
only  just  begun.  If  I  do  it  well,  it  must  be  by 
remembering  how  my  master  taught  me." 

Gwendolen  was  in  reality  too  uncertain  about 
herself  to  be  prepared  for  this  simple  prompti- 
tude of  Mirah's,  and  in  her  wish  to  change  the 
subject,  said,  with  some  lapse  from  the  good 
taste  of  her  first  address,  — 

"  You  have  not  been  long  in  London,  I  think? 
—  but  you  were  perhaps  introduced  to  Mr.  De- 
ronda  abroad? " 

"  No,"  said  Mirah;  "  I  never  saw  him  before 
I  came  to  England  in  the  summer." 

"  But  he  has  seen  you  often  and  heard  you 
sing  a  great  deal,  has  he  not?  "  said  Gwendolen, 
led  on  partly  by  the  wish  to  hear  anything  about 
Deronda,  and  partly  by  the  awkwardness  which 
besets  the  readiest  person  in  carrying  on  a  dia- 
logue when  empty  of  matter.  "  He  spoke  of 
you  to  me  with  the  highest  praise.  He  seemed 
to  know  you  quite  well." 

"  Oh,  I  was  poor  and  needed  help,"  said 
Mirah,  in  a  new  tone  of  feeling,  and  Mr.  De- 
ronda has  given  me  the  best  friends  in  the  world. 
That  is  the  only  way  he  came  to  know  anything 
about  me,  —  because  he  was  sorry  for  me.  I 
had  no  friends  when  I  came.  I  was  in  distress. 
I  owe  everything  to  him." 

Poor  Gwendolen,  who  had  wanted  to  be  a 
struggling  artist  herself,  could  nevertheless  not 
escape  the  impression  that  a  mode  of  inquiry 


REVELATIONS  23 


which  would  have  been  rather  rude  towards  her- 
self was  an  amiable  condescension  to  this  Jewess 
who  was  ready  to  give  her  lessons.  The  only 
effect  on  Mirah,  as  always  on  any  mention  of 
Deronda,  was  to  stir  reverential  gratitude  and 
anxiety  that  she  should  be  understood  to  have 
the  deepest  obligation  to  him. 

But  both  he  and  Hans,  who  were  noticing  the 
pair  from  a  distance,  would  have  felt  rather  in- 
dignant if  they  had  known  that  the  conversation 
had  led  up  to  Mirah's  representation  of  herself 
in  this  light  of  neediness.  In  the  movement  that 
prompted  her,  however,  there  was  an  exquisite 
delicacy,  which  perhaps  she  could  not  have  stated 
explicitly,  —  the  feeling  that  she  ought  not  to 
allow  any  one  to  assume  in  Deronda  a  relation  of 
more  equality  or  less  generous  interest  towards 
her  than  actually  existed.  Her  answer  was  de- 
lightful to  Gwendolen:  she  thought  of  nothing 
but  the  ready  compassion  which  in  another  form 
she  had  trusted  in  and  found  for  herself;  and 
on  the  signals  that  Klesmer  was  about  to  play 
she  moved  away  in  much  content,  entirely  with- 
out presentiment  that  this  Jewish  protegee 
would  ever  make  a  more  important  difference  in 
her  life  than  the  possible  improvement  of  her 
singing,  —  if  the  leisure  and  spirits  of  a  Mrs. 
Grandcourt  would  allow  of  other  lessons  than 
such  as  the  world  was  giving  her  at  rather  a 
high  charge. 

With  her  wonted  alternation  from  resolute 
care  of  appearances  to  some  rash  indulgence  of 
an  impulse,  she  chose,  under  the  pretext  of  get- 
ting farther  from  the  instrument,  not  to  go 
again  to  her  former  seat,  but  placed  herself  on 


24  DANIEL  DERONDA 


a  settee  where  she  could  only  have  one  neighbour. 
She  was  nearer  to  Deronda  than  before:  was  it 
surprising  that  he  came  up  in  time  to  shake 
hands  before  the  music  began,  —  then,  that  after 
he  had  stood  a  little  while  by  the  elbow  of  the 
settee  at  the  empty  end,  the  torrent-like  conflu- 
ences of  bass  and  treble  seemed,  like  a  convulsion 
of  nature,  to  cast  the  conduct  of  petty  mortals 
into  insignificance,  and  to  warrant  his  sitting 
down? 

But  when  at  the  end  of  Klesmer's  playing 
there  came  the  outburst  of  talk  under  which 
Gwendolen  had  hoped  to  speak  as  she  would  to 
Deronda,  she  observed  that  Mr.  Lush  was  within 
hearing,  leaning  against  the  wall  close  by  them. 
She  could  not  help  her  flush  of  anger,  but  she 
tried  to  have  only  an  air  of  polite  indifference 
in  saying,  — 

"  Miss  Lapidoth  is  everything  you  described 
her  to  be." 

"  You  have  been  very  quick  in  discovering 
that,"  said  Deronda,  ironically. 

"  I  have  not  found  out  all  the  excellences  you 
spoke  of,  —  I  don't  mean  that,"  said  Gwen- 
dolen; ''but  I  think  her  singing  is  charming, 
and  herself  too.  Her  face  is  lovely,  —  not  in 
the  least  common;  and  she  is  such  a  complete 
little  person.  I  should  think  she  will  be  a  great 
success." 

This  speech  was  grating  to  Deronda,  and  he 
would  not  answer  it,  but  looked  gravely  before 
him.  She  knew  that  he  was  displeased  with  her, 
and  she  was  getting  so  impatient  under  the 
neighbourhood  of  Mr.  Lush,  which  prevented 
her  from  saying  any  word  she  wanted  to  say. 


REVELATIONS  25 


that  she  meditated  some  desperate  step  to  get 
rid  of  it,  and  remained  silent  too.  That  con- 
straint seemed  to  last  a  long  while,  neither  Gwen- 
dolen nor  Deronda  looking  at  the  other,  till 
Lush  slowly  relieved  the  wall  of  his  weight,  and 
joined  some  one  at  a  distance. 

Gwendolen  immediately  said,  "  You  despise 
me  for  talking  artificially." 

"  No,"  said  Deronda,  looking  at  her  coolly; 
"  I  think  that  is  quite  excusable  sometimes.  But 
I  did  not  think  what  you  were  last  saying  was 
altogether  artificial." 

"  There  was  something  in  it  that  displeased 
you,"  said  Gwendolen.    "What  was  it?" 

"  It  is  impossible  to  explain  such  things,"  said 
Deronda.  "One  can  never  communicate  nice- 
ties of  feeling  about  words  and  manner." 

"  You  think  I  am  shut  out  from  understand- 
ing them,"  said  Gwendolen,  with  a  slight  tremor 
in  her  voice  which  she  was  trying  to  conquer. 
"  Have,  I  shown  myself  so  very  dense  to  every- 
thing you  have  said?  "  There  was  an  inde- 
scribable look  of  suppressed  tears  in  her  eyes, 
which  were  turned  on  him. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Deronda,  with  some  soften- 
ing of  voice.  "  But  experience  differs  for  differ- 
ent people.  We  don't  all  wince  at  the  same 
things.  I  have  had  plenty  of  proof  that  you 
are  not  dense."    He  smiled  at  her. 

"  But  one  may  feel  things  and  not  be  able  to 
do  anything  better  for  all  that,"  said  Gwen- 
dolen, not  smiling  in  return,  —  the  distance  to 
which  Deronda's  words  seemed  to  throw  her 
chilling  her  too  much.  "  I  begin  to  think  we  can 
only  get  better  by  having  people  about  us  who 


26  DAXIEL  DEROXDA 


raise  good  feelings.  You  must  not  be  surprised 
at  an\i:hing  in  me.  I  think  it  is  too  late  for  me 
to  alter.  I  don't  know  how  to  set  about  being 
wise,  as  you  told  me  to  be." 

"  I  seldom  find  I  do  any  good  by  my  preach- 
ing. I  might  as  well  have  kept  from  meddling," 
said  Deronda,  thinking  rather  sadly  that  his 
interference  about  that  unfortunate  necklace 
might  end  in  nothing  but  an  added  pain  to  him 
in  seeing  her  after  all  hardened  to  another  sort 
of  gambhng  than  roulette. 

"  Don't  say  that,"  said  Gwendolen,  hurriedly, 
feehng  that  this  might  be  her  only  chance  of  get- 
ting the  words  uttered,  and  dreading  the  increase 
of  her  own  agitation.  If  you  despair  of  me, 
I  shall  despair.  Your  saying  that  I  should  not 
go  on  being  selfish  and  ignorant  has  been  some 
strength  to  me.  If  you  say  you  wish  you  had 
not  meddled,  —  that  means,  you  despau-  of  me 
and  forsake  me.  And  then  you  wdll  decide  for 
me  that  I  shall  not  be  good.  It  is  you  who  will 
decide;  because  you  might  have  made  me  differ- 
ent by  keeping  as  near  to  me  as  you  could,  and 
believing  in  me." 

She  had  not  been  looking  at  him  as  she  spoke, 
but  at  the  handle  of  the  fan  which  she  held 
closed.  With  the  last  vrords  she  rose  and  left 
him,  returning  to  her  former  place,  wliich  had 
been  left  vacant;  while  every  one  was  settling 
into  quietude  in  expectation  of  Mii'ah's  voice, 
which  presently,  with  that  wonderful,  searching 
quality  of  subdued  song  in  which  the  melody 
seems  simply  an  effect  of  the  emotion,  gave 
forth,  Per  pieta  non  dirmi  addio. 

In  Deronda's  ears  the  strain  was  for  the  mo- 


REVELATIONS  27 


ment  a  continuance  of  Gwendolen's  pleading, 
—  a  painful  urging  of  something  vague  and 
difficult,  irreconcilable  with  pressing  conditions, 
and  yet  cruel  to  resist.  However  strange  the 
mixture  in  her  of  a  resolute  pride  and  a  pre- 
cocious air  of  knowing  the  world,  with  a  pre- 
cipitate, guileless  indiscretion,  he  was  quite  sure 
now  that  the  mixture  existed.  Sir  Hugo's  hints 
had  made  him  alive  to  dangers  that  his  own  dis- 
position might  have  neglected;  but  that  Gwen- 
dolen's reliance  on  him  was  unvisited  by  any 
dream  of  his  being  a  man  who  could  misinterpret 
her  was  as  manifest  as  morning,  and  made  an 
appeal  which  wrestled  with  his  sense  of  present 
dangers,  and  with  his  foreboding  of  a  growing 
incompatible  claim  on  him  in  her  mind.  There 
was  a  foreshadowing  of  some  painful  collision: 
on  the  one  side  the  grasp  of  Mordecai's  dying 
hand  on  him,  with  all  the  ideals  and  prospects  it 
aroused;  on  the  other  this  fair  creature  in  silk 
and  gems,  with  her  hidden  wound  and  her  self- 
dread,  making  a  trustful  effort  to  lean  and  find 
herself  sustained.  It  was  as  if  he  had  a  vision 
of  himself  besought  with  outstretched  arms  and 
cries,  while  he  was  caught  by  the  waves  and  com- 
pelled to  mount  the  vessel  bound  for  a  far-off 
coast.  That  was  the  strain  of  excited  feeling  in 
him  that  went  along  with  the  notes  of  Mirah's 
song;  but  when  it  ceased  he  moved  from  his 
seat  with  the  reflection  that  he  had  been  falling 
into  an  exaggeration  of  his  own  importance,  and 
a  ridiculous  readiness  to  accept  Gwendolen's 
view  of  himself,  as  if  he  could  really  have  any 
decisive  power  over  her. 

"  What  an  enviable  fellow  you  are,"  said  Hans 


28  DANIEL  DERONDA 


to  him,  "  sitting  on  a  sofa  with  that  young 
duchess,  and  having  an  interesting  quarrel  with 
her!" 

"  Quarrel  with  her? "  repeated  Deronda, 
rather  uncomfortably. 

"  Oh,  about  theology,  of  course;  nothing  per- 
sonal. But  she  told  you  what  you  ought  to 
think,  and  then  left  you  with  a  grand  air  which 
was  admirable.  Is  she  an  Antinomian?  —  if  so, 
tell  her  I  am  an  Antinomian  painter,  and  intro- 
duce me.  I  should  like  to  paint  her  and  her 
husband.  He  has  the  sort  of  handsome  physique 
that  the  Duke  ought  to  have  in  Lucrezia  Borgia, 

—  if  it  could  go  with  a  fine  barytone,  which  it 
can't." 

Deronda  devoutly  hoped  that  Hans's  account 
of  the  impression  his  dialogue  with  Gv>^endolen 
had  made  on  a  distant  beholder  was  no  more 
than  a  bit  of  fantastic  representation,  such  as 
was  common  with  him. 

And  Gwendolen  was  not  without  her  after- 
thoughts that  her  husband's  eyes  might  have 
been  on  her,  extracting  something  to  reprove, 

—  some  offence  against  her  dignity  as  his  wife ; 
her  consciousness  telling  her  that  she  had  not 
kept  up  the  perfect  air  of  equability  in  public 
which  was  her  own  ideal.  But  Grandcourt  made 
no  observation  on  her  behaviour.  All  he  said  as 
they  were  driving  home  was,  — 

"  Lush  will  dine  with  us  among  the  other  peo- 
ple to-morrow.   You  will  treat  him  civilly." 

Gwendolen's  heart  began  to  beat  violently. 
The  words  that  she  wanted  to  utter,  as  one  wants 
to  return  a  blow,  were,  "  You  are  breaking  your 
promise  to  me, —  the  first  promise  you  made 


\ 


REVELATIONS  29 


me."  But  she  dared  not  utter  them.  She  was 
as  frightened  at  a  quarrel  as  if  she  had  foreseen 
that  it  would  end  with  throttling  fingers  on  her 
neck.  After  a  pause,  she  said,  in  the  tone  rather 
of  defeat  than  resentment,  — 

I  thought  you  did  not  intend  him  to  fre- 
quent the  house  again." 

I  want  him  just  now.  He  is  useful  to  me; 
and  he  must  be  treated  civilly." 

Silence.  There  may  come  a  moment  when 
even  an  excellent  husband  who  has  dropped 
smoking  under  more  or  less  of  a  pledge  during 
courtship,  for  the  first  time  will  introduce  his 
cigar-smoke  between  himself  and  his  wife,  with 
the  tacit  understanding  that  she  will  have  to  put 
up  with  it.  Mr.  Lush  was,  so  to  speak,  a  very 
large  cigar. 

If  these  are  the  sort  of  lovers'  vows  at  which 
J ove  laughs,  he  must  have  a  merry  time  of  it. 


CHAPTER  VI 


If  any  one  should  importune  me  to  give  a  reason  why  I  loved  him, 
I  feel  it  could  no  otherwise  be  expressed  than  by  making  answer,  "Be- 
cause it  was  he;  because  it  was  I."  There  is,  beyond  what  I  am  able 
to  say,  I  know  not  what  inexplicable  and  inevitable  power  that  brought 
on  this  union.  —  Montaigne:  On  Friendship. 

THE  time  had  come  to  prepare  Mordecai 
for  the  revelation  of  the  restored  sister 
and  for  the  change  of  abode  which  was 
desirable  before  Mirah's  meeting  with  her 
brother.  Mrs.  Meyrick,  to  whom  Deronda  had 
confided  everything  except  Mordecai's  peculiar 
relation  to  himself,  had  been  active  in  helping 
him  to  find  a  suitable  lodging  in  Brompton,  not 
many  minutes'  walk  from  her  own  house,  so  that 
the  brother  and  sister  would  be  within  reach  of 
her  motherly  care.  Her  happy  mixture  of  Scot- 
tish caution  with  her  Scottish  fervour  and  Gallic 
liveliness  had  enabled  her  to  keep  the  secret 
close  from  the  girls  as  well  as  from  Hans,  any 
betrayal  to  them  being  likely  to  reach  Mirah  in 
some  way  that  would  raise  an  agitating  suspi- 
cion^ and  spoil  the  important  opening  of  that 
work  which  was  to  secure  her  independence,  as 
we  rather  arbitrarily  call  one  of  the  more  arduous 
and  dignified  forms  of  our  dependence.  And 
both  Mrs.  Meyrick  and  Deronda  had  more  rea- 
sons than  they  could  have  expressed  for  desiring 
that  Mirah  should  be  able  to  maintain  herself. 
Perhaps  "  the  little  mother  "  was  rather  helped 
in  her  secrecy  by  some  dubiousness  in  her  senti- 
ment about  the  remarkable  brother  described  to 


\ 


REVELATIONS  31 

her?  and  certainly^  if  she  felt  any  joy  and  antici- 
patory admiration,  it  was  due  to  her  faith  in 
Deronda's  judgment.  The  consumption  was  a 
sorrowful  fact  that  appealed  to  her  tenderness; 
but  how  was  she  to  be  very  glad  of  an  enthusiasm 
which,  to  tell  the  truth,  she  could  only  contem- 
plate as  Jewish  pertinacity,  and  as  rather  an 
undesirable  introduction  among  them  all  of  a 
man  whose  conversation  would  not  be  more 
modern  and  encouraging  than  that  of  Scott's 
Covenanters?  Her  mind  was  anything  but 
prosaic,  and  she  had  her  soberer  share  of  Mab's 
delight  in  the  romance  of  Mirah's  story  and  of 
her  abode  with  them;  but  the  romantic  or  un- 
usual in  real  life  requires  some  adaptation.  We 
sit  up  at  night  to  read  about  Sakya-Mouni,  Saint 
Francis,  or  Oliver  Cromwell;  but  whether  we 
should  be  glad  for  any  one  at  all  like  them  to 
call  on  us  the  next  morning,  still  more,  to  reveal 
himself  as  a  new  relation,  is  quite  another  affair. 
Besides,  Mrs.  Meyrick  had  hoped,  as  her  chil- 
dren did,  that  the  intensity  of  Mirah's  feeling 
about  Judaism  would  slowly  subside,  and  be 
merged  in  the  gradually  deepening  current  of 
loving  interchange  with  her  new  friends.  In 
fact,  her  secret  favourite  continuation  of  the 
romance  had  been  no  discovery  of  Jewish  rela- 
tions, but  something  much  more  favourable  to 
the  hopes  she  discerned  in  Hans.  And  now  — 
here  was  a  brother  who  would  dip  Mirah's  mind 
over  again  in  the  deepest  dye  of  Jewish  senti- 
ment. She  could  not  help  saying  to  Deronda,  — 
"  I  am  as  glad  as  you  are  that  the  pawn- 
broker is  not  her  brother:  there  are  Ezras  and 
Ezras  in  the  world;  and  really  it  is  a  comfort 


32  DANIEL  DERONDA 


to  think  that  all  Jews  are  not  like  those  shop- 
keepers who  will  not  let  you  get  out  of  their 
shops;  and  besides,  what  he  said  to  you  about 
his  mother  and  sister  makes  me  bless  him.  I  am 
sure  he 's  good.  But  I  never  did  like  anything 
fanatical.  I  suppose  I  heard  a  little  too  much 
preaching  in  my  youth,  and  lost  my  palate  for 

it. 

"  I  don't  think  you  will  find  that  Mordecai 
obtrudes  any  preaching,"  said  Deronda.  "  He 
is  not  what  I  should  call  fanatical.  I  call  a  man 
fanatical  when  his  enthusiasm  is  narrow  and 
hoodwinked,  so  that  he  has  no  sense  of  propor- 
tions, and  becomes  unjust  and  unsympathetic 
to  men  who  are  out  of  his  own  track.  Mordecai 
is  an  enthusiast :  I  should  like  to  keep  that  word 
for  the  highest  order  of  minds,  —  those  who  care 
supremely  for  grand  and  general  benefits  to 
mankind.  He  is  not  a  strictly  orthodox  Jew, 
and  is  full  of  allowances  for  others;  his  con- 
formity in  many  things  is  an  allowance  for  the 
condition  of  other  Jews.  The  people  he  lives 
with  are  as  fond  of  him  as  possible,  and  they 
can't  in  the  least  understand  his  ideas." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  can  live  up  to  the  level  of  the 
pawnbroker's  mother,  and  like  him  for  what  I 
see  to  be  good  in  him;  and  for  what  I  don't  see 
the  merits  of  I  will  take  your  word.  According 
to  your  definition,  I  suppose  one  might  be  fanat- 
ical in  worshipping  common-sense;  for  my  hus- 
band used  to  say  the  world  would  be  a  poor 
place  if  there  were  nothing  but  common-sense  in 
it.  However,  Mirah's  brother  will  have  good 
bedding,  —  that  I  have  taken  care  of ;  and  I 
shall  have  this  extra  window  pasted  up  with 


REVELATIONS  33 


paper  to  prevent  draughts."  ( The  conversation 
was  taking  place  in  the  destined  lodging.)  "  It 
is  a  comfort  to  think  that  the  people  of  the  house 
are  no  strangers  to  me,  —  no  hypocritical  har- 
pies. And  when  the  children  know,  we  shall  be 
able  to  make  the  rooms  much  prettier." 

"  The  next  stage  of  the  affair  is  to  tell  all  to 
Mordecai,  and  get  him  to  move,  which  may  be 
a  more  difficult  business,"  said  Deronda. 

"  And  will  you  tell  Mirah  before  I  say  any- 
thing to  the  children?  "  said  Mrs.  Meyrick.  But 
Deronda  hesitated,  and  she  went  on  in  a  tone  of 
persuasive  deliberation,  "  No,  I  think  not.  Let 
me  tell  Hans  and  the  girls  the  evening  before, 
and  they  will  be  away  the  next  morning." 

"  Yes,  that  will  be  best.  But  do  justice  to 
my  account  of  Mordecai  —  or  Ezra,  as  I  sup- 
pose Mirah  will  wish  to  call  him:  don't  assist 
their  imagination  by  referring  to  Habakkuk 
Muckle wrath,"  said  Deronda,  smiling,  —  Mrs. 
Meyrick  herself  having  used  the  comparison  of 
the  Covenanters. 

"  Trust  me,  trust  me,"  said  the  little  mother. 
"  I  shall  have  to  persuade  them  so  hard  to  be 
glad,  that  I  shall  convert  mj^self .  When  I  am 
frightened  I  find  it  a  good  thing  to  have  some- 
body to  be  angry  with  for  not  being  brave:  it 
warms  the  blood." 

Deronda  might  have  been  more  argumenta- 
tive or  persuasive  about  the  view  to  be  taken  of 
Mirah's  brother,  if  he  had  been  less  anxiously 
preoccupied  with  the  more  important  task  im- 
mediately before  him,  which  he  desired  to  acquit 
himself  of  without  wounding  the  Cohens.  Mor- 
decai, by  a  memorable  answer,  had  made  it 

VOL.  XIV — 3 


34  DANIEL  DERONDA 


evident  that  he  would  be  keenly  alive  to  any  in- 
advertence in  relation  to  their  feelings.  In  the 
interval  he  had  been  meeting  Mordecai  at  the 
Hand  and  Banner,  but  now  after  due  reflection 
he  wrote  to  him  saying  that  he  had  particular 
reasons  for  wishing  to  see  him  in  his  own  home 
the  next  evening,  and  would  beg  to  sit  with  him 
in  his  workroom  for  an  hour,  if  the  Cohens  would 
not  regard  it  as  an  intrusion.  He  would  call 
with  the  understanding  that  if  there  were  any 
objection,  Mordecai  would  accompany  him  else- 
where. Deronda  hoped  in  this  way  to  create 
a  little  expectation  that  would  have  a  prepara- 
tory effect. 

He  was  received  with  the  usual  friendliness, 
some  additional  costume  in  the  women  and  chil- 
dren, and  in  all  the  elders  a  slight  air  of  won- 
dering which  even  in  Cohen  was  not  allowed  to 
pass  the  bounds  of  silence, —  the  guest's  trans- 
actions with  Mordecai  being  a  sort  of  mystery 
which  he  was  rather  proud  to  think  lay  outside 
the  sphere  of  light  which  enclosed  his  own  under- 
standing. But  when  Deronda  said,  "  I  suppose 
Mordecai  is  at  home  and  expecting  me,"  Jacob, 
who  had  profited  by  the  family  remarks,  went 
up  to  his  knee,  and  said,  "  What  do  you  want  to 
talk  to  Mordecai  about?  " 

"  Something  that  is  very  interesting  to  him," 
said  Deronda,  pinching  the  lad's  ear,  "  but  that 
you  can't  understand." 

"  Can  you  say  this?  "  said  Jacob,  immediately 
giving  forth  a  string  of  his  rote-learned  Hebrew 
verses  with  a  wonderful  mixture  of  the  throaty 
and  the  nasal,  and  nodding  his  small  head  at  his 
hearer,  with  a  sense  of  giving  formidable  evi- 


REVELATIONS  35 


dence  which  might  rather  alter  their  mutual 
position. 

"No,  really,"  said  Deronda,  keeping  grave; 
"  I  can't  say  anything  like  it." 

"  I  thought  not,"  said  Jacob,  performing  a 
dance  of  triumph  with  his  small  scarlet  legs, 
while  he  took  various  objects  out  of  the  deep 
pockets  of  his  knickerbockers  and  returned  them 
thither,  as  a  slight  hint  of  his  resources;  after 
which  running  to  the  door  of  the  workroom,  he 
opened  it  wide,  set  his  back  against  it,  and  said, 
"  Mordecai,  here 's  the  young  swell,"  —  a  copy- 
ing of  his  father's  phrase  which  seemed  to  him 
well  fitted  to  cap  the  recitation  of  Hebrew. 

He  was  called  back  with  hushes  by  mother 
and  grandmother,  and  Deronda,  entering  and 
closing  the  door  behind  him,  saw  that  a  bit  of 
carpet  had  been  laid  down,  a  chair  placed,  and 
the  fire  and  lights  attended  to,  in  sign  of  the 
Cohens'  respect.  As  Mordecai  rose  to  greet  him, 
Deronda  was  struck  with  the  air  of  solemn  ex- 
pectation in  his  face,  such  as  would  have  seemed 
perfectly  natural  if  his  letter  had  declared  that 
some  revelation  was  to  be  made  about  the  lost 
sister.  Neither  of  them  spoke,  till  Deronda, 
with  his  usual  tenderness  of  manner,  had  drawn 
the  vacant  chair  from  the  opposite  side  of  the 
hearth  and  had  seated  himself  near  to  Mordecai, 
who  then  said,  in  a  tone  of  fervid  certainty,  — 

"  You  are  come  to  tell  me  something  that  my 
soul  longs  for." 

"It  is  true  that  I  have  something  very 
weighty  to  tell  you,  —  something,  I  trust,  that 
you  will  rejoice  in,"  said  Deronda,  on  his  guard 
against  the  probability  that  Mordecai  had  been 


36  DANIEL  DERONDA 


preparing  himself  for  something  quite  different 
from  the  fact. 

"  It  is  all  revealed,  —  it  is  made  clear  to  you," 
said  Mordecai,  more  eagerly,  leaning  forward 
with  clasped  hands.  "  You  are  even  as  my 
brother  that  sucked  the  breasts  of  my  mother,  — 
the  heritage  is  yours,  —  there  is  no  doubt  to 
divide  us." 

"  I  have  learned  nothing  new  about  myself," 
said  Deronda,  The  disappointment  was  inevi- 
table; it  was  better  not  to  let  the  feeling  be 
strained  longer  in  a  mistaken  hope. 

Mordecai  sank  back  in  his  chair,  unable  for 
the  moment  to  care  what  was  really  coming. 
The  whole  day  his  mind  had  been  in  a  state 
of  tension  towards  one  fulfilment.  The  reaction 
was  sickening,  and  he  closed  his  eyes. 

"  Except,"  Deronda  went  on  gently  after  a 
pause,  —  "  except  that  I  had  really  some  time 
ago  come  into  another  sort  of  hidden  connection 
with  you,  besides  what  you  have  spoken  of  as 
existing  in  your  own  feeling." 

The  eyes  were  not  opened,  but  there  was  a 
fluttering  in  the  lids. 

"  I  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  one  in 
whom  you  are  interested." 

Mordecai  opened  his  eyes  and  fixed  them  in 
a  quiet  gaze  on  Deronda:  the  former  painful 
check  repressed  all  activity  of  conjecture. 

"  One  who  is  closely  related  to  your  departed 
mother,"  Deronda  went  on,  wishing  to  make  the 
disclosure  gradual;  but  noticing  a  shrinking 
movement  in  Mordecai,  he  added,  —  "  whom  she 
and  you  held  dear  above  all  others." 

Mordecai,  with  a  sudden  start,  laid  a  spas- 


REVELATIONS  37 


modic  grasp  on  Deronda's  wrist;  there  was  a 
great  terror  in  him.  And  Deronda  divined  it. 
A  tremor  was  perceptible  in  his  clear  tones  as 
he  said,  — 

"What  was  prayed  for  has  come  to  pass: 
Mir  ah  has  been  delivered  from  evil." 

Mordecai's  grasp  relaxed  a  little,  but  he  was 
panting  with  a  sort  of  tearless  sob. 

Deronda  went  on:  "  Your  sister  is  worthy  of 
the  mother  you  honoured." 

He  waited  there;  and  Mordecai,  throwing 
himself  backward  in  his  chair,  again  closed  his 
eyes,  uttering  himself  almost  inaudibly  for  some 
minutes  in  Hebrew,  and  then  subsiding  into  a 
happy-looking  silence.  Deronda,  watching  the 
expression  in  his  uplifted  face,  could  have  imag- 
ined that  he  was  speaking  with  some  beloved 
object:  there  was  a  new  suffused  sweetness, 
something  like  that  on  the  faces  of  the  beautiful 
dead.  For  the  first  time  Deronda  thought  he 
discerned  a  family  resemblance  to  Mirah. 

Presently,  when  Mordecai  was  ready  to  listen, 
the  rest  was  told.  But  in  accounting  for  Mirah's 
flight  he  made  the  statements  about  the  father's 
conduct  as  vague  as  he  could,  and  threw  the  em- 
phasis on  her  yearning  to  come  to  England  as 
the  place  where  she  might  find  her  mother.  Also 
he  kept  back  the  fact  of  Mirah's  intention  to 
drown  herself,  and  his  own  part  in  rescuing  her ; 
merely  describing  the  home  she  had  found  with 
friends  of  his,  whose  interest  in  her  and  efforts 
for  her  he  had  shared.  What  he  dwelt  on  finally 
was  Mirah's  feeling  about  her  mother  and 
brother;  and  in  relation  to  this  he  tried  to  give 
every  detail. 


38  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  It  was  in  search  of  them,"  said  Deronda, 
smiHng,  "  that  I  turned  into  this  house :  the  name 
Ezra  Cohen  was  just  then  the  most  interesting 
name  in  the  world  to  me.  I  confess  I  had  a  fear 
for  a  long  while.  Perhaps  you  will  forgive  me 
now  for  having  asked  you  that  question  about  the 
elder  Mrs.  Cohen's  daughter.  I  cared  very  much 
what  I  should  find  Mirah's  friends  to  be.  But 
I  had  found  a  brother  worthy  of  her  when  I  knew 
that  her  Ezra  was  disguised  under  the  name  of 
Mordecai." 

"  Mordecai  is  really  my  name,  —  Ezra  Mor- 
decai  Cohen." 

"  Is  there  any  kinship  between  this  family  and' 
yours?"  said  Deronda. 

"  Only  the  kinship  of  Israel.  My  soul  clings 
to  these  people,  who  have  sheltered  me  and  given 
me  succour  out  of  the  affection  that  abides  in 
Jewish  hearts,  as  a  sweet  odour  in  things  long 
crushed  and  hidden  from  the  outer  air.  It  is 
good  for  me  to  bear  with  their  ignorance  and  be 
bound  to  them  in  gratitude  that  I  may  keep  in 
mind  the  spiritual  poverty  of  the  Jewish  million, 
and  not  put  impatient  knowledge  in  the  stead  of 
loving  wisdom." 

"But  you  don't  feel  bound  to  continue  with 
them  now  there  is  a  closer  tie  to  draw  you?  "  said 
Deronda,  not  without  fear  that  he  might  find  an 
obstacle  to  overcome.  "  It  seems  to  me  right 
now  —  is  it  not  ?  —  that  you  should  live  with 
your  sister ;  and  I  have  prepared  a  home  to  take 
you  to  in  the  neighbourhood  of  her  friends,  that 
she  may  join  you  there.  Pray  grant  me  this 
wish.  It  will  enable  me  to  be  with  you  often  in 
the  hours  when  Mirah  is  obliged  to  leave  you. 


REVELATIONS  39 


That  is  my  selfish  reason.  But  the  chief  reason 
is,  that  Mirah  \^dll  desire  to  watch  over  you,  and 
that  you  ought  to  give  to  her  the  guardianship 
of  a  brother's  presence.  You  shall  have  books 
about  you.  I  shall  want  to  learn  of  you,  and  to 
take  you  out  to  see  the  river  and  trees.  And  you 
will  have  the  rest  and  comfort  that  you  will  be 
more  and  more  in  need  of,  —  nay,  that  I  need  for 
you.  This  is  the  claim  I  make  on  you,  now  that 
we  have  found  each  other." 

Deronda  spoke  in  a  tone  of  earnest  affection- 
ate pleading,  such  as  he  might  have  used  to  a 
venerated  elder  brother.  Mordecai's  eyes  were 
fixed  on  him  with  a  listening  contemplation,  and 
he  was  silent  for  a  little  while  after  Deronda  had 
ceased  to  speak.  Then  he  said,  with  an  almost 
reproachful  emphasis,  — 

"  And  you  would  have  me  hold  it  doubtful 
whether  you  were  born  a  Jew!  Have  we  not 
from  the  first  touched  each  other  with  invisible 
fibres,  —  have  we  not  quivered  together  like  the 
leaves  from  a  common  stem  with  stirrings  from 
a  common  root?  I  know  what  I  am  outwardly, 
—  I  am  one  among  the  crowd  of  poor,  —  I  am 
stricken,  I  am  dying.  But  our  souls  know  each 
other.  They  gazed  in  silence  as  those  who  have 
long  been  parted  and  meet  again,  but  when  they 
found  voice  they  were  assured,  and  all  their 
speech  is  understanding.  The  life  of  Israel  is  in 
your  veins." 

Deronda  sat  perfectly  still,  but  felt  his  face 
tingling.  It  was  impossible  either  to  deny  or  as- 
sent. He  waited,  hoping  that  Mordecai  would 
presently  give  him  a  more  direct  answer.  And 
after  a  pause  of  meditation  he  did  say  firmly,  — 


40  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  What  you  wish  of  me  I  will  do.  And  our 
mother  —  may  the  blessing  of  the  Eternal  be 
with  her  in  our  souls!  —  would  have  wished  it 
too.  I  will  accept  what  your  loving-kindness  has 
prepared,  and  Mirah's  home  shall  be  mine."  He 
paused  a  moment,  and  then  added  in  a  more  mel- 
ancholy tone,  "  But  I  shall  grieve  to  part  from 
these  parents  and  the  little  ones.  You  must  tell 
them,  for  my  heart  would  fail  me." 

"I  felt  that  you  would  want  me  to  tell  them. 
Shall  we  go  now  at  once?  "  said  Deronda,  much 
relieved  by  this  unwavering  compliance. 

"Yes;  let  us  not  defer  it.  It  must  be  done," 
said  Mordecai,  rising  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
has  to  perform  a  painful  duty.  Then  came,  as 
an  after-thought,  "  But  do  not  dwell  on  my  sister 
more  than  is  needful." 

When  they  entered  the  parlour  he  said  to  the 
alert  Jacob,  "  Ask  your  father  to  come,  and  tell 
Sarah  to  mind  the  shop.  My  friend  has  some- 
thing to  say,"  he  continued,  turning  to  the  elder 
Mrs.  Cohen.  It  seemed  part  of  Mordecai's  ec- 
centricity that  he  should  call  this  gentleman  his 
friend;  and  the  two  women  tried  to  show  their 
better  manners  by  warm  politeness  in  begging 
Deronda  to  seat  himself  in  the  best  place. 

When  Cohen  entered  with  a  pen  behind  his 
ear,  he  rubbed  his  hands  and  said  with  loud  satis- 
faction: "  Well,  sir!  I 'm  glad  you  're  doing  us 
the  honour  to  join  our  family  party  again.  We 
are  pretty  comfortable,  I  think." 

He  looked  round  with  shiny  gladness.  And 
when  all  were  seated  on  the  hearth,  the  scene  was 
worth  peeping  in  upon ;  on  one  side  baby  under 
her  scarlet  quilt  in  the  corner  being  rocked  by  the 


REVELATIONS  41 


young  mother,  and  Adelaide  Rebekah  seated  on 
the  grandmother's  knee ;  on  the  other,  Jacob  be- 
tween his  father's  legs;  while  the  two  markedly 
different  figures  of  Deronda  and  Mordecai  were 
in  the  middle,  —  Mordecai  a  little  backward  in 
the  shade,  anxious  to  conceal  his  agitated  suscep- 
tibility to  what  was  going  on  around  him.  The 
chief  light  came  from  the  fire,  which  brought  out 
the  rich  colour  on  a  depth  of  shadow,  and  seemed 
to  turn  into  speech  the  dark  gems  of  eyes  that 
looked  at  each  other  kindly. 

"  I  have  just  been  telling  Mordecai  of,  an 
event  that  makes  a  great  change  in  his  life," 
Deronda  began,  "  but  I  hope  you  will  agree  with 
me  that  it  is  a  joyful  one.  Since  he  thinks  of  you 
as  his  best  friends,  he  wishes  me  to  tell  you  for 
him  at  once." 

"  Relations  with  money,  sir?  "  burst  in  Cohen, 
feeling  a  power  of  divination  which  it  was  a  pity 
to  nullify  by  waiting  for  the  fact. 

"No;  not  exactly,"  said  Deronda,  smiling. 
"  But  a  very  precious  relation  wishes  to  be  re- 
united to  him,  —  a  very  good  and  lovely  young 
sister,  who  will  care  for  his  comfort  in  every 
way." 

"Married,  sir?" 

"  No,  not  married." 

"  But  with  a  maintenance?  " 

"  With  talents  which  will  secure  her  a  main- 
tenance. A  home  is  already  provided  for 
Mordecai." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment  or  two  before 
the  grandmother  said  in  a  wailing  tone,  — 

"  Well,  well !  and  so  you  're  going  away  from 
us,  Mordecai." 


42  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  And  where  there 's  no  children  as  there  is 
here,"  said  the  mother,  catching  the  wail. 

"  No  Jacob,  and  no  Adelaide,  and  no  Eu- 
genie !  "  wailed  the  grandmother  again. 

"  Ay,  ay,  Jacob's  learning  'ill  all  wear  out  of 
him.  He  must  go  to  school.  It  '11  be  hard  times 
for  Jacob,"  said  Cohen,  in  a  tone  of  decision. 

In  the  wide-open  ears  of  Jacob  his  father's 
words  sounded  like  a  doom,  giving  an  awful  fin- 
ish to  the  dirgelike  effect  of  the  whole  announce- 
ment. His  face  had  been  gathering  a  wondering 
incredulous  sorrow  at  the  notion  of  Mordecai's 
going  away:  he  was  unable  to  imagine  the 
change  as  anything  lasting ;  but  at  the  mention 
of  "  hard  times  for  Jacob  "  there  was  no  further 
suspense  of  feeling,  and  he  broke  forth  in  loud 
lamentation.  Adelaide  Rebekah  always  cried 
when  her  brother  cried,  and  now  began  to  howl 
with  astonishing  suddenness,  whereupon  baby 
awaking  contributed  angry  screams  and  required 
to  be  taken  out  of  the  cradle.  A  great  deal  of 
hushing  was  necessary;  and  Mordecai,  feeling 
the  cries  pierce  him,  put  out  his  arms  to  Jacob, 
who  in  the  midst  of  his  tears  and  sobs  was  turn- 
ing his  head  right  and  left  for  general  observa- 
tion. His  father,  who  had  been  saying,  "  Never 
mind,  old  man;  you  shall  go  to  the  riders,"  now 
released  him;  and  he  went  to  Mordecai,  who 
clasped  him,  and  laid  his  cheek  on  the  little  black 
head  without  speaking.  But  Cohen,  sensible 
that  the  master  of  the  family  must  make  some 
apology  for  all  this  weakness,  and  that  the  occa- 
sion called  for  a  speech,  addressed  Deronda  with 
some  elevation  of  pitch,  squaring  his  elbows  and 
resting  a  hand  on  each  knee,  — 


REVELATIONS  43 


"  It 's  not  as  we  're  the  people  to  grudge  any- 
body's good  luck,  sir,  or  the  portion  of  their  cup 
being  made  fuller,  as  I  may  say.  I 'm  not  an  en- 
vious man,  and  if  anybody  offered  to  set  up 
Mordecai  in  a  shop  of  my  sort  two  doors  lower 
down,  /  should  n't  make  wry  faces  about  it. 
I 'm  not  one  of  them  that  had  need  have  a  poor 
opinion  of  themselves,  and  be  frightened  at  any- 
body else  getting  a  chance.  If  I 'm  offal,  let  a 
wise  man  come  and  tell  me,  for  I  Ve  never  heard 
it  yet.  And  in  point  of  business,  I 'm  not  a  class 
of  goods  to  be  in  danger.  If  anybody  takes  to 
rolling  me,  I  can  pack  myself  up  like  a  caterpil- 
lar, and  find  my  feet  when  I 'm  let  alone.  And 
though,  as  I  may  say,  you  're  taking  some  of  our 
good  works  from  us,  which  is  a  property  bearing 
interest,  I 'm  not  saying  but  we  can  afford  that, 
though  my  mother  and  my  wife  had  the  good  will 
to  wish  and  do  for  Mordecai  to  the  last;  and  a 
Jew  must  not  be  like  a  servant  who  works  for  re- 
ward, —  though  I  see  nothing  against  a  reward 
if  I  can  get  it.  And  as  to  the  extra  outlay  in 
schooling,  I 'm  neither  poor  nor  greedy,  —  I 
would  n't  hang  myself  for  sixpence,  nor  half  a 
crown  neither.  But  the  truth  of  it  is,  the  women 
and  children  are  fond  of  Mordecai.  You  may 
partly  see  how  it  is,  sir,  by  your  own  sense.  A 
Jewish  man  is  bound  to  thank  God,  day  by  day, 
that  he  was  not  made  a  woman ;  but  a  woman  has 
to  thank  God  that  He  has  made  her  according 
to  His  will.  And  we  all  know  what  He  has  made 
her,  —  a  child-bearing,  tender-hearted  thing  is 
the  woman  of  our  people.  Her  children  are 
mostly  stout,  as  I  think  you  '11  say  Addy's  are, 
and  she 's  not  mushy,  but  her  heart  is  tender. 


44  DANIEL  DERONDA 


So  you  must  excuse  present  company,  sir,  for  not 
being  glad  all  at  once.  And  as  to  this  young 
lady,  —  for  by  what  you  say  '  young  lady '  is 
the  proper  term,"  —  Cohen  here  threw  some  ad- 
ditional emphasis  into  his  look  and  tone,  —  "we 
shall  all  be  glad  for  Mordecai's  sake  by  and  by, 
when  we  cast  up  our  accounts  and  see  where  we 
are." 

Before  Deronda  could  summon  any  answer  to 
this  oddly  mixed  speech,  Mordecai  exclaimed,  — 

"  Friends,  friends !  For  food  and  raiment  and 
shelter  I  would  not  have  sought  better  than  you 
have  given  me.  You  have  sweetened  the  morsel 
with  love;  and  what  I  thought  of  as  a  joy  that 
would  be  left  to  me  even  in  the  last  months  of  my 
waning  strength  was  to  go  on  teaching  the  lad. 
But  now  I  am  as  one  who  had  clad  himself 
beforehand  in  his  shroud,  and  used  himself  to 
making  the  grave  his  bed,  when  the  divine  com- 
mand sounded  in  his  ears,  '  Arise,  and  go  forth ; 
the  night  is  not  yet  come.'  For  no  light  matter 
would  I  have  turned  away  from  your  kindness  to 
take  another's.  But  it  has  been  taught  us,  as  you 
know,  that  the  reward  of  one  duty  is  the  power  to 
fulfil  another,  —  so  said  Ben  Azai.  You  have 
made  your  duty  to  one  of  the  poor  among  your 
brethren  a  joy  to  you  and  me;  and  your  reward 
shall  be  that  you  will  not  rest  without  the  joy  of 
like  deeds  in  the  time  to  come.  And  may  not 
Jacob  come  and  visit  me?  "^ 

Mordecai  had  turned  with  this  question  to 
Deronda,  who  said,  — 

"  Surely  that  can  be  managed.  It  is  no 
farther  than  B  romp  ton." 

Jacob,  who  had  been  gradually  calmed  by  the 


REVELATIONS  45 


need  to  hear  what  was  going  forward,  began 
now  to  see  some  daylight  on  the  future,  the  word 
"  visit  "  having  the  Mvely  charm  of  cakes  and 
general  relaxation  at  his  grandfather's,  the 
dealer  in  knives.  He  danced  away  from  Mor- 
decai,  and  took  up  a  station  of  survey  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  hearth  with  his  hands  in  his  knicker- 
bockers. 

"  Well,"  said  the  grandmother,  with  a  sigh  of 
resignation,  "  I  hope  there  '11  be  nothing  in  the 
way  of  your  getting  kosher  meat,  Mordecai. 
For  you  '11  have  to  trust  to  those  you  live  with." 

"  That 's  all  right,  that 's  all  right,  you  may  be 
^ure,  mother,"  said  Cohen,  as  if  anxious  to  cut  off 
inquiry  on  matters  in  which  he  was  uncertain  of 
the  guest's  position.  "  So,  sir,"  he  added,  turn- 
ing with  a  look  of  amused  enlightenment  to  De- 
ronda,  "  it  was  better  than  learning  you  had  to 
talk  to  Mordecai  about!  I  wondered  to  myself 
at  the  time.  I  thought  somehow  there  was  a 
something." 

"  Mordecai  will  perhaps  explain  to  you  how  it 
was  that  I  was  seeking  him,"  said  Deronda,  feel- 
ing that  he  had  better  go,  and  rising  as  he  spoke. 

It  was  agreed  that  he  should  come  again  and 
the  final  move  be  made  on  the  next  day  but  one ; 
but  when  he  was  going  Mordecai  begged  to  walk 
with  him  to  the  end  of  the  street,  and  wrapped 
himself  in  coat  and  comforter.  It  was  a  March 
evening,  and  Deronda  did  not  mean  to  let  him 
go  far,  but  he  understood  the  wish  to  be  outside 
the  house  with  him  in  communicative  silence, 
after  the  exciting  speech  that  had  been  filling  the 
last  hour.  No  word  was  spoken  until  Deronda 
had  proposed  parting,  when  he  said,  — 


46  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  Mirah  would  wish  to  thank  the  Cohens  for 
their  goodness.  You  would  wish  her  to  do  so  — 
to  come  and  see  them,  would  you  not?  " 

Mordecai  did  not  answer  immediately,  but  at 
length  said,  — 

"  I  cannot  tell.  I  fear  not.  There  is  a  family 
sorrow,  and  the  sight  of  my  sister  might  be  to 
them  as  the  fresh  bleeding  of  wounds.  There  is 
a  daughter  and  sister  who  will  never  be  restored 
as  Mirah  is.  But  who  knows  the  pathways? 
We  are  all  of  us  denying  or  fulfilling  prayers,  — 
and  men  in  their  careless  deeds  walk  amidst  in- 
visible outstretched  arms  and  pleadings  made  in 
vain.  In  my  ears  I  have  the  prayers  of  genera- 
tions past  and  to  come.  My  life  is  as  nothing 
to  me  but  the  beginning  of  fulfilment.  And  yet 
I  am  only  another  prayer  —  which  you  will 
fulfil." 

Deronda  pressed  his  hand,  and  they  parted. 


I 


CHAPTER  VII 


And  you  must  love  him  ere  to  you 
He  will  seem  worthy  of  yciur  love. 

Wordsworth. 


ONE  might  be  tempted  to  envy  Deronda 
providing  new  clothes  for  Mordecai,  and 
pleasing  himself  as  if  he  were  sketching 
a  picture  in  imagining  the  effect  of  the  fine  gray 
flannel  shirts  and  a  dressing-gown  very  much 
like  a  Franciscan's  brown  frock,  with  Mordecai's 
head  and  neck  above  them.  Half  his  pleasure 
was  the  sense  of  seeing  Mirah's  brother  through 
her  eyes,  and  securing  her  fervid  joy  from  any 
perturbing  impression.  And  yet,  after  he  had 
made  all  things  ready,  he  was  visited  with  a  doubt 
whether  he  were  not  mistaking  her,  and  putting 
the  lower  effect  for  the  higher:  was  she  not  just 
as  capable  as  he  himself  had  been  of  feeling  the 
impressive  distinction  in  her  brother  all  the  more 
for  that  aspect  of  poverty  which  was  among  the 
memorials  of  his  past  ?  But  there  were  the  Mey- 
ricks  to  be  propitiated  towards  this  too  Judaic 
brother;  and  Deronda  detected  himself  piqued 
into  getting  out  of  sight  everything  that  might 
feed  the  ready  repugnance  in  minds  unblessed 
with  that  "  precious  seeing,"  that  bathing  of  all 
objects  in  a  solemnity  as  of  sunset-glow,  which 
is  begotten  of  a  loving  reverential  emotion. 

And  his  inclination  would  have  been  the  more 
confirmed  if  he  had  heard  the  dialogue  round 
Mrs.  Meyrick's  fire  late  in  the  evening,  after 


48  DANIEL  DERONDA 


Mirah  had  gone  to  her  room.  Hans,  settled  now 
in  his  Chelsea  rooms,  had  stayed  late,  and  Mrs. 
Meyrick,  poking  the  fire  into  a  blaze,  said,  — 

"  Now,  Kate,  put  out  your  candle,  and  all 
come  round  the  fire  cosily.  Hans  dear,  do  leave 
off  laughing  at  those  poems  for  the  ninety-ninth 
time,  and  come  too.  I  have  something  wonderful 
to  tell  you." 

"  As  if  I  did  n't  know  that,  ma.  I  have  seen  it 
in  the  corner  of  your  eye  ever  so  long,  and  in  your 
pretence  of  errands,"  said  Kate,  while  the  girls 
came  to  put  their  feet  on  the  fender,  and  Hans, 
pushing  his  chair  near  them,  sat  astride  it,  rest- 
ing his  fists  and  chin  on  the  back. 

"  Well,  then,  if  you  are  so  wise,  perhaps  you 
know  that  Mirah's  brother  is  found!  "  said  Mrs. 
Meyrick,  in  her  clearest  accents. 

"  Oh,  confound  it!  "  said  Hans,  in  the  same 
moment. 

"  Hans,  that  is  wicked,"  said  Mab.  "  Suppose 
we  had  lost  you." 

"  I  cannot  help  being  rather  sorry,"  said  Kate. 
"  And  her  mother?  —  where  is  she?  " 

"  Her  mother  is  dead." 

"  I  hope  the  brother  is  not  a  bad  man,"  said 
Amy. 

"Nor  a  fellow  all  smiles  and  jewellery,  —  a 
Crystal  Palace  Assyrian  with  a  hat  on,"  said 
Hans,  in  the  worst  humour. 

"  Were  there  ever  such  unfeeling  children?  " 
said  Mrs.  Meyrick,  a  little  strengthened  by  the 
need  for  opposition.  "  You  don't  think  the  least 
bit  of  Mirah's  joy  in  the  matter." 

"  You  know,  ma,  Mirah  hardly  remembers 
her  brother,"  said  Kate. 


REVELATIONS  49 


"  People  who  are  lost  for  twelve  years  should 
never  come  back  again,"  said  Hans.  "  They  are 
always  in  the  way." 

"  Hans !  "  said  Mrs.  Meyrick,  reproachfully. 
"  If  you  had  lost  me  for  twenty  years,  I  should 
have  thought  —  " 

"  I  said  twelve  years,"  Hans  broke  in.  "  Any- 
where about  twelve  years  is  the  time  at  which 
lost  relations  should  keep  out  of  the  way." 

"  Well,  but  it 's  nice  finding  people  —  there  is 
something  to  tell,"  said  Mab,  clasping  her  knees. 
"  Did  Prince  Camaralzaman  find  him?  "' 

Then  Mrs.  Meyrick,  in  her  neat  narrative  way, 
told  all  she  knew  without  interruption,  "  Mr.  De- 
ronda  has  the  highest  admiration  for  him,"  she 
ended,  —  "  seems  quite  to  look  up  to  him.  And 
he  says  Mirah  is  just  the  sister  to  understand 
this  brother." 

"  Deronda  is  getting  perfectly  preposterous 
about  those  Jews,"  said  Hans  with  disgust,  ris- 
ing and  setting  his  chair  away  with  a  bang. 
"  He  wants  to  do  everything  he  can  to  encourage 
Mirah  in  her  prejudices." 

"Oh,  for  shame,  Hans!  —  to  speak  in  that 
way  of  Mr.  Deronda,"  said  Mab.  And  Mrs. 
Meyrick's  face  showed  something  like  an  under- 
current of  expression  not  allowed  to  get  to  the 
surface. 

"  And  now  we  shall  never  be  all  together," 
Hans  went  on,  walking  about  with  his  hands 
thrust  into  the  pockets  of  his  brown  velveteen 
coat,  "  but  we  must  have  this  prophet  Elijah  to 
tea  with  us,  and  Mirah  will  think  of  nothing  but 
sitting  on  the  ruins  of  Jerusalem.  She  will  be 
spoiled  as  an  artist  —  mind  that  —  she  will  get 

VOL.  XIV  —  4 


50  DANIEL  DERONDA 


as  narrow  as  a  nun.  Everything  will  be  spoiled, 
—  our  home  and  everything.  I  shall  take  to 
drinking." 

"  Oh,  really,  Hans,"  said  Kate,  impatiently, 
"I  do  think  men  are  the  most  contemptible 
animals  in  all  creation.  Every  one  of  them 
must  have  everything  to  his  mind,  else  he  is 
unbearable." 

"  Oh,  oh,  oh,  it 's  very  dreadful!  "  cried  Mab. 
"  I  feel  as  if  ancient  Nineveh  were  come  again." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  what  is  the  good  of 
having  gone  to  the  university  and  knowing 
everything,  if  you  are  so  childish,  Hans,"  said 
Amy.  "  You  ought  to  put  up  with  a  man  that 
Providence  sends  you  to  be  kind  to.  We  shall 
have  to  put  up  with  him." 

"  I  hope  you  will  all  of  you  like  the  new 
Lamentations  of  Jeremiah  —  'to  be  continued 
in  our  next '  —  that 's  all,"  said  Hans,  seizing 
his  wide-awake.  "  It 's  no  use  being  one  thing 
more  than  another  if  one  has  to  endure  the 
company  of  those  men  with  a  fixed  idea,  —  star- 
ing blankly  at  you,  and  requiring  all  your 
remarks  to  be  small  footnotes  to  their  text.  If 
you  're  to  be  under  a  petrifying  well,  you 'd 
better  be  an  old  boot.  I  don't  feel  myself  an 
old  boot."  Then  abruptly,  "  Good-night,  little 
mother,"  bending  to  kiss  her  brow  in  a  hasty, 
desperate  manner,  and  condescendingly,  on  his 
way  to  the  door,  "  Good-night,  girls." 

"  Suppose  Mirah  knew  how  you  are  behav- 
ing," said  Kate.   But  her  answer  was  a  slam  of 
the  door.   "  I  should  like  to  see  Mirah  when  Mr. 
Deronda  tells  her,"  she  went  on,  to  her  mother. 
I  know  she  will  look  so  beautiful." 


REVELATIONS 


51 


But  Deronda  on  second  thoughts  had  written 
a  letter  which  Mrs.  Meyrick  received  the  next 
morning,  begging  her  to  make  the  revelation 
instead  of  waiting  for  him,  not  giving  the  real 
reason,  —  that  he  shrank  from  going  again 
through  a  narrative  in  which  he  seemed  to  be 
making  himself  important,  and  giving  himself 
a  character  of  general  beneficence,  —  but  say- 
ing that  he  wished  to  remain  with  Mordecai 
while  Mrs.  Meyrick  would  bring  Mir  ah  on  what 
was  to  be  understood  as  a  visit,  so  that  there 
might  be  a  little  interval  before  that  change  of 
abode  which  he  expected  that  Mirah  herself 
would  propose. 

Deronda  secretly  felt  some  wondering  anxiety 
how  far  Mordecai,  after  years  of  solitary  pre- 
occupation with  ideas  likely  to  have  become  the 
more  exclusive  from  continual  diminution  of 
bodily  strength,  would  allow  him  to  feel  a  tender 
interest  in  his  sister  over  and  above  the  rendering 
of  pious  duties.  His  feeling  for  the  Cohens, 
and  especially  for  little  Jacob,  showed  a  per- 
sistent activity  of  affection;  but  those  objects 
had  entered  into  his  daily  life  for  years;  and 
Deronda  felt  it  noticeable  that  Mordecai  asked 
no  new  questions  about  Mirah,  maintaining, 
indeed,  an  unusual  silence  on  all  subjects,  and 
appearing  simply  to  submit  to  the  changes  that 
were  coming  over  his  personal  life.  He  donned 
his  new  clothes  obediently,  but  said  afterwards  to 
Deronda,  with  a  faint  smile,  "  I  must  keep  my 
old  garments  by  me  for  a  remembrance."  And 
when  they  were  seated,  awaiting  JSlirah,  he 
uttered  no  word,  keeping  his  eyelids  closed,  but 
yet  showing  restless  feeling  in  his  face  and  hands. 


52  DANIEL  DERONDA 


In  fact,  Mordecai  was  undergoing  that  peculiar 
nervous  perturbation  only  known  to  those  whose 
minds,  long  and  habitually  moving  with  strong 
impetus  in  one  current,  are  suddenly  compelled 
into  a  new  or  reopened  channel.  Susceptible 
people  whose  strength  has  been  long  absorbed 
by  a  dominant  bias  dread  an  interview  that  im- 
periously revives  the  past,  as  they  would  dread 
a  threatening  illness.  Joy  may  be  there,  but 
joy,  too,  is  terrible. 

Deronda  felt  the  infection  of  excitement,  and 
when  he  heard  the  ring  at  the  door,  he  went  out, 
not  knomng  exactly  why,  that  he  might  see  and 
greet  Mirah  beforehand.  He  was  startled  to 
find  that  she  had  on  the  hat  and  cloak  in  which 
he  had  first  seen  her,  —  the  memorable  cloak 
that  had  once  been  wetted  for  a  winding-sheet. 
She  had  come  downstairs  equipped  in  this  way, 
and  when  JNIrs.  ]VIe}T^ick  said,  in  a  tone  of  ques- 
tion, "  You  like  to  go  in  that  dress,  dear? " 
she  answered,  "  My  brother  is  poor,  and  I  want 
to  look  as  much  like  him  as  I  can,  else  he  may 
feel  distant  from  me,"  —  imagining  that  she 
should  meet  him  in  the  workman's  dress.  De- 
ronda could  not  make  any  remark,  but  felt 
secretly  rather  ashamed  of  his  own  fastidious 
arrangements.  They  shook  hands  silently,  for 
Mirah  looked  pale  and  awed. 

When  Deronda  opened  the  door  for  her,  Mor- 
decai had  risen,  and  had  his  eyes  turned  towards 
it  with  an  eager  gaze.  JNIirah  took  only  two  or 
three  ste^s,  and  then  stood  still.  They  looked  at 
each  other,  motionless.  It  was  less  their  own 
presence  that  they  felt  than  another's ;  they  were 
meeting  first  in  memories,  compared  \\4th  which 


REVELATIONS  58 


touch  was  no  union.  Mirah  was  the  first  to 
break  the  silence,  standing  where  she  was. 

"  Ezra,"  she  said,  in  exactly  the  same  tone  as 
when  she  was  telling  of  her  mother's  call  to  him. 

Mordecai  with  a  sudden  movement  advanced, 
and  laid  his  hands  on  her  shoulders.  He  was 
the  head  taller,  and  looked  down  at  her  tenderly 
while  he  said,  "  That  was  our  mother's  voice. 
You  remember  her  calling  me!  " 

"  Yes,  and  how  you  answered  her,  — 
*  Mother!'  —  and  I  knew  you  loved  her." 
Mirah  threw  her  arms  round  her  brother's  neck, 
clasped  her  little  hands  behind  it,  and  drew  down 
his  face,  kissing  it  with  childlike  lavishness.  Her 
hat  fell  backward  on  the  ground  and  disclosed 
all  her  curls. 

"  Ah,  the  dear  head,  the  dear  head!  "  said  Mor- 
decai, in  a  low  loving  tone,  laying  his  thin  hand 
gently  on  the  curls. 

You  are  very  ill,  Ezra,"  said  Mirah,  sadly 
looking  at  him  with  more  observation. 

"  Yes,  dear  child,  I  shall  not  be  long  with  you 
in  the  body,"  was  the  quiet  answer. 

"  Oh,  I  will  love  you  and  we  will  talk  to  each 
other,"  said  Mirah,  with  a  sweet  outpouring  of 
her  words,  as  spontaneous  as  bird-notes.  "  I  will 
tell  you  everything,  and  you  will  teach  me,  — 
you  will  teach  me  to  be  a  good  Jewess,  —  what 
she  would  have  liked  me  to  be.  I  shall  always 
be  with  you  when  I  am  not  working.  For  I 
work  now.  I  shall  get  money  to  keep  us.  Oh, 
I  have  had  such  good  friends." 

Mirah  until  now  had  quite  forgotten  that  any 
one  was  by,  but  here  she  turned  with  the  pret- 
tiest attitude,  keeping  one  hand  on  her  brother's 


54  DANIEL  DERONDA 


arm  while  she  looked  at  Mrs.  Meyrick  and  De- 
ronda.  The  little  mother's  happy  emotion  in 
witnessing  this  meeting  of  brother  and  sister 
had  already  won  her  to  Mordecai,  who  seemed  to 
her  really  to  have  more  dignity  and  refinement 
than  she  had  felt  obliged  to  believe  in  from  De- 
ronda's  account. 

"  See  this  dear  lady!  "  said  Mirah.  "  I  was  a 
stranger,  a  poor  wanderer,  and  she  believed  in 
me,  and  has  treated  me  as  a  daughter.  Please 
give  my  brother  your  hand,"  she  added  beseech- 
ingly, taking  Mrs.  Meyrick's  hand  and  putting 
it  in  Mordecai's,  then  pressing  them  both  with 
her  own  and  lifting  them  to  her  lips. 

"  The  Eternal  Goodness  has  been  with  you," 
said  Mordecai.  "  You  have  helped  to  fulfil  our 
mother's  prayer." 

"  I  think  we  will  go  now,  shall  we?  —  and  re- 
turn later,"  said  Deronda,  laying  a  gentle  pres- 
sure on  Mrs.  Meyrick's  arm,  and  she  immediately 
complied.  He  was  afraid  of  any  reference  to 
the  facts  about  himself  which  he  had  kept  back 
from  Mordecai,  and  he  felt  no  uneasiness  now  in 
the  thought  of  the  brother  and  sister  being  alone 
together. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


"'Tis  a  hard  and  ill-paid  task  to  order  all  things  beforehand  by 
the  rule  of  our  own  security,  as  is  well  hinted  by  Machiavelh  concern- 
ing Caesar  Borgia,  who,  saith  he,  had  thought  of  all  that  might  occur 
on  his  father's  death,  and  had  provided  against  every  evil  chance  save 
only  one:  it  had  never  come  into  his  mind  that  when  his  father  died, 
his  own  death  would  quickly  follow." 

GRANDCOURT'S  importance  as  a  sub- 
ject of  this  realm  was  of  the  grandly  pas- 
sive kind  which  consists  in  the  inheritance 
of  land.  Political  and  social  movements  touched 
him  only  through  the  wire  of  his  rental,  and  his 
most  careful  biographer  need  not  have  read  up 
on  Schleswig-Holstein,  the  policy  of  Bismarck, 
trade-unions,  household  suffrage,  or  even  the  last 
commercial  panic.  He  glanced  over  the  best 
newspaper  columns  on  these  topics,  and  his  views 
on  them  can  hardly  be  said  to  have  wanted 
breadth,  since  he  embraced  all  Germans,  all  com- 
mercial men,  and  all  voters  liable  to  use  the 
wrong  kind  of  soap,  under  the  general  epithet  of 
"  brutes;  "  but  he  took  no  action  on  these  much 
agitated  questions  beyond  looking  from  under 
his  eyelids  at  any  man  who  mentioned  them,  and 
retaining  a  silence  which  served  to  shake  the 
opinions  of  timid  thinkers. 

But  Grandcourt  within  his  own  sphere  of  in- 
terest showed  some  of  the  qualities  which  have 
entered  into  triumphal  diplomacy  of  the  widest 
(Continental  sort. 

No  movement  of  Gwendolen  in  relation  to 
Deronda  escaped  him.    He  would  have  denied 


56  DANIEL  DERONDA 


that  he  was  jealous;  because  jealousy  would 
have  implied  some  doubt  of  his  own  power  to 
hinder  what  he  had  determined  against.  That 
his  wife  should  have  more  inclination  to  another 
man's  society  than  to  his  own  would  not  pain 
him;  what  he  required  was  that  she  should  be 
as  fully  aware  as  she  would  have  been  of  a 
locked  handcuff,  that  her  inclination  was  help- 
less to  decide  anything  in  contradiction  with  his 
resolve.  However  much  of  vacillating  whim 
there  might  have  been  in  his  entrance  on  matri- 
mony, there  was  no  vacillating  in  his  interpre- 
tation of  the  bond.  He  had  not  repented  of  his 
marriage;  it  had  really  brought  more  of  aim 
into  his  life,  new  objects  to  exert  his  will  upon; 
and  he  had  not  repented  of  his  choice.  His 
taste  was  fastidious,  and  Gwendolen  satisfied 
it:  he  would  not  have  liked  a  wife  who  had  not 
received  some  elevation  of  rank  from  him;  nor 
one  who  did  not  command  admiration  by  her 
mien  and  beauty;  nor  one  whose  nails  were  not 
of  the  right  shape ;  nor  one  the  lobe  of  whose  ear 
was  at  all  too  large  and  red ;  nor  one  who,  even 
if  her  nails  and  ears  were  right,  was  at  the  same 
time  a  ninny,  unable  to  make 'spirited  answers. 
These  requirements  may  not  seem  too  exacting 
to  refined  contemporaries  whose  own  ability  to 
fall  in  love  has  been  held  in  suspense  for  lack 
of  indispensable  details ;  but  fewer  perhaps  may 
follow  him  in  his  contentment  that  his  wife 
should  be  in  a  temper  which  would  dispose  her 
to  fly  out  if  she  dared,  and  that  she  should  have 
been  urged  into  marrying  him  by  other  feelings 
than  passionate  attachment.  Still,  for  those 
who  prefer  conmiand  to  love,  one  does  not  see 


REVELATIONS  57 


why  the  habit  of  mind  should  change  precisely 
at  the  point  of  matrimony. 

Grandcourt  did  not  feel  that  he  had  chosen  the 
wrong  wife;  and  having  taken  on  himself  the 
part  of  husband,  he  was  not  going  in  any  way 
to  be  fooled,  or  allow  himself  to  be  seen  in  a 
light  that  could  be  regarded  as  pitiable.  This 
was  his  state  of  mind,  —  not  jealousy;  still,  his 
behaviour  in  some  respects  was  as  like  jealousy 
as  yellow  is  to  yellow,  which  colour  we  know  may 
be  the  effect  of  very  different  causes. 

He  had  come  up  to  town  earlier  than  usual 
because  he  wished  to  be  on  the  spot  for  legal 
consultation  as  to  the  arrangements  of  his  will, 
the  transference  of  mortgages,  and  that  trans- 
action with  his  uncle  about  the  succession  to 
Diplow,  which  the  bait  of  ready  money,  adroitly 
dangled  without  importunity,  had  finally  won 
him  to  agree  upon.  But  another  acceptable  ac- 
companiment of  his  being  in  town  was  the  pres- 
entation of  himself  with  the  beautiful  bride 
whom  he  had  chosen  to  marry  in  spite  of  what 
other  people  might  have  expected  of  him.  It  is 
true  that  Grandcourt  went  about  with  the  sense 
that  he  did  not  care  a  languid  curse  for  any  one's 
admiration;  but  this  state  of  not-caring,  just  as 
much  as  desire,  required  its  related  object,  — 
namely,  a  world  of  admiring  or  envying  specta- 
tors: for  if  you  are  fond  of  looking  stonily  at 
smiling  persons,  the  persons  must  be  there  and 
they  must  smile,  —  a  rudimentary  truth  which 
is  surely  forgotten  by  those  who  complain  of 
mankind  as  generally  contemptible,  since  any 
other  aspect  of  the  race  must  disappoint  the 
voracity  of  their  contempt.  Grandcourt,  in  town 


58  DANIEL  DERONDA 


for  the  first  time  with  his  wife,  had  his  non-caring 
abstinence  from  curses  enlarged  and  diversified 
by  splendid  receptions,  by  conspicuous  rides  and 
drives,  by  presentations  of  himself  with  her  on 
all  distinguished  occasions.  He  wished  her  to 
be  sought  after;  he  liked  that  "  fellows  "  should 
be  eager  to  talk  with  her  and  escort  her  within 
his  observation;  there  was  even  a  kind  of  lofty 
coquetry  on  her  part  that  he  would  not  have 
objected  to.  But  what  he  did  not  like  were  her 
ways  in  relation  to  Deronda. 

After  the  musical  party  at  Lady  Mallinger's, 
when  Grandcourt  had  observed  the  dialogue  on 
the  settee  as  keenly  as  Hans  had  done,  it  was 
characteristic  of  him  that  he  named  Deronda  for 
invitation  along  with  the  Mallingers,  tenaciously 
avoiding  the  possible  suggestion  to  anybody  con- 
cerned that  Deronda's  presence  or  absence  could 
be  of  the  least  importance  to  him;  and  he  made 
no  direct  observation  to  Gwendolen  on  her  be- 
haviour that  evening,  lest  the  expression  of  his 
disgust  should  be  a  little  too  strong  to  satisfy 
his  own  pride.  But  a  few  days  afterwards 
he  remarked,  without  being  careful  of  the  a 
propos,  — 

"  Nothing  makes  a  woman  more  of  a  gawky 
than  looking  out  after  people  and  showing  tem- 
pers in  public.  A  woman  ought  to  have  fine 
manners.  Else  it 's  intolerable  to  appear  with 
her." 

Gwendolen  made  the  expected  application, 
and  was  not  without  alarm  at  the  notion  of  being 
a  gawky.  For  she,  too,  with  her  melancholy 
distaste  for  things,  preferred  that  her  distaste 
should  include  admirers.   But  the  sense  of  over- 


REVELATIONS  59 


hanging  rebuke  only  intensified  the  strain  of  ex- 
pectation towards  any  meeting  with  Deronda. 
The  novelty  and  excitement  of  her  town  life  was 
like  the  hurry  and  constant  change  of  foreign 
travel:  whatever  might  be  the  inward  despon- 
dency, there  was  a  programme  to  be  fulfilled, 
not  without  gratification  to  many-sided  self. 
But,  as  always  happens  with  a  deep  interest,  the 
comparatively  rare  occasions  on  which  she  could 
exchange  any  words  with  Deronda  had  a  dif- 
fusive effect  in  her  consciousness,  magnifying 
their  communication  with  each  other,  and  there- 
fore enlarging  the  place  she  imagined  it  to  have 
in  his  mind.  How  could  Deronda  help  this? 
He  certainly  did  not  avoid  her ;  rather  he  wished 
to  convince  her  by  every  delicate  indirect  means 
that  her  confidence  in  him  had  not  been  indis- 
creet, since  it  had  not  lowered  his  respect.  More- 
over, he  liked  being  near  her  —  how  could  it  be 
otherwise?  She  was  something  more  than  a 
problem:  she  was  a  lovely  woman,  for  the  turn 
of  whose  mind  and  fate  he  had  a  care  which,  how- 
ever futile  it  might  be,  kept  soliciting  him  as  a 
responsibility,  perhaps  all  the  more  that,  when  he 
dared  to  think  of  his  own  future,  he  saw  it  lying 
far  away  from  this  splendid  sad-hearted  crea- 
ture, who,  because  he  had  once  been  impelled  to 
arrest  her  attention  momentarily,  as  he  might 
have  seized  her  arm  with  warning  to  hinder  her 
from  stepping  where  there  was  danger,  had 
turned  to  him  with  a  beseeching  persistent  need. 

One  instance  in  which  Grandcourt  stimulated 
a  feeling  in  Gwendolen  that  he  would  have  liked 
to  suppress  without  seeming  to  care  about  it,  had 
relation  to  Mirah.    Gwendolen's  inclination  lin- 


60  DANIEL  DERONDA 


gered  over  the  project  of  the  singing-lessons  as 
a  sort  of  obedience  to  Deronda's  advice,  but  day 
followed  day  with  that  want  of  perceived  leisure 
which  belongs  to  lives  where  there  is  no  work  to 
mark  off  intervals ;  and  the  continual  liability  to 
Grandcourt's  presence  and  surveillance  seemed 
to  flatten  every  effort  to  the  level  of  the  boredom 
which  his  manner  expressed:  his  negative  mind 
was  as  diffusive  as  fog,  clinging  to  all  objects, 
and  spoiling  all  contact. 

But  one  morning  when  they  were  breakfast- 
ing, Gwendolen,  in  a  recurrent  fit  of  determina- 
tion to  exercise  her  old  spirit,  said,  dallying 
prettily  over  her  prawns  without  eating  them,  — 

"  I  think  of  making  myself  accomplished 
while  we  are  in  town,  and  having  singing- 
lessons." 

"  Why?  "  said  Grandcourt,  languidly. 

"  Why?  "  echoed  Gwendolen,  playing  at  sau- 
ciness;  "  because  I  can't  eat  pate  de  foie  gras  to 
make  me  sleepy,  and  I  can't  smoke,  and  I  can't 
go  to  the  club  to  make  me  like  to  come  away 
again,  —  I  want  a  variety  of  ennui.  What 
would  be  the  most  convenient  time,  when  you 
are  busy  with  your  lawyers  and  people,  for  me 
to  have  lessons  from  that  little  Jewess,  whose 
singing  is  getting  all  the  rage?  " 

"  Whenever  you  like,"  said  Grandcourt,  push- 
ing away  his  plate,  and  leaning  back  in  his  chair 
while  he  looked  at  her  with  his  most  Uzard-like 
expression,  and  played  with  the  ears  of  the  tiny 
spaniel  on  his  lap  (Gwendolen  had  taken  a  dis- 
like to  the  dogs  because  they  fawned  on  him). 

Then  he  said  languidly,  "  I  don't  see  why  a 
lady  should  sing.    Amateurs  make  fools  of 


REVELATIONS  61 


themselves.  A  lady  can't  risk  herself  in  that 
way  in  company.  And  one  does  n't  want  to 
hear  squalling  in  private." 

"I  like  frankness:  that  seems  to  me  a  hus- 
band's great  charm,"  said  Gwendolen,  with  her 
little  upward  movement  of  her  chin,  as  she  turned 
her  eyes  away  from  his,  and  lifting  a  prawn 
before  her,  looked  at  the  boiled  ingenuousness 
of  its  eyes  as  preferable  to  the  lizard's.  "  But," 
she  added,  having  devoured  her  mortification,  "  I 
suppose  you  don't  object  to  Miss  Lapidoth's 
singing  at  our  party  on  the  4th?  I  thought  of 
engaging  her.  Lady  Brackenshaw  had  her,  you 
know ;  and  the  Raymonds,  who  are  very  partic- 
ular about  their  music.  And  Mr.  Deronda,  who 
is  a  musician  himself,  and  a  first-rate  judge, 
says  that  there  is  no  singing  in  such  good  taste 
as  hers  for  a  drawing-room.  I  think  his  opinion 
is  an  authority." 

She  meant  to  sling  a  small  stone  at  her  hus- 
band in  that  way. 

"  It 's  very  indecent  of  Deronda  to  go  iabout 
praising  that  girl,"  said  Grandcourt,  in  a  tone 
of  indifference. 

"Indecent!"  exclaimed  Gwendolen,  redden- 
ing and  looking  at  him  again,  overcome  by 
startled  wonder,  and  unable  to  reflect  on  the 
probable  falsity  of  the  phrase,  —  "to  go  about 
praising!  " 

"  Yes;  and  especially  when  she  is  patronized 
by  Lady  Mallinger.  He  ought  to  hold  his 
tongue  about  her.  Men  can  see  what  is  his  re- 
lation to  her." 

"  Men  who  judge  of  others  by  themselves," 
said  Gwendolen,  turning  white  after  her  red- 


62  DANIEL  DERONDA 


ness,  and  immediately  smitten  with  a  dread  of 
her  own  words. 

"Of  course.  And  a  woman  should  take  their 
judgment,  —  else  she  is  likely  to  run  her  head 
into  the  wrong  place,"  said  Grandcourt,  con- 
scious of  using  pincers  on  that  white  creature. 
"  I  suppose  you  take  Deronda  for  a  saint." 

"  Oh  dear,  no!  "  said  Gwendolen,  summoning 
desperately  her  almost  miraculous  power  of  self- 
control,  and  speaking  in  a  high  hard  tone. 
"  Only  a  little  less  of  a  monster." 

She  rose,  pushed  her  chair  away  without 
hurry,  and  walked  out  of  the  room  with  some- 
thing like  the  care  of  a  man  who  is  afraid  of 
showing  that  he  has  taken  more  wine  than  usual. 
She  turned  the  keys  inside  her  dressing-room 
doors,  and  sat  down  for  some  time  looking  as 
pale  and  quiet  as  when  she  was  leaving  the  ^ 
breakfast-room.  Even  in  the  moments  after 
reading  the  poisonous  letter  she  had  hardty  had 
more  cruel  sensations  than  now;  for  emotion 
was  at  the  acute  point,  where  it  is  not  distin- 
guishable from  sensation.  Deronda  unlike  what 
she  had  believed  him  to  be,  was  an  image  which 
affected  her  as  a  hideous  apparition  would  have 
done,  quite  apart  from  the  way  in  which  it  was 
produced.  It  had  taken  hold  of  her  as  pain 
before  she  could  consider  whether  it  were  fiction 
or  truth;  and  further  to  hinder  her  power  of 
resistance  came  the  sudden  perception,  how  very 
slight  were  the  grounds  of  her  faith  in  Deronda, 
—  how  little  she  knew  of  his  life,  —  how  childish 
she  had  been  in  her  confidence.  His  rebukes  and 
his  severity  to  her  began  to  seem  odious,  along 
with  all  the  poetry  and  lofty  doctrine  in  the 


REVELATIONS  63 


world,  whatever  it  might  be;  and  the  grave 
beauty  of  his  face  seemed  the  most  unpleasant 
mask  that  the  common  habits  of  men  could 
put  on. 

All  this  went  on  in  her  with  the  rapidity  of  a 
sick  dream;  and  her  start  into  resistance  was 
very  much  like  a  waking.  Suddenly  from  out 
the  gray  sombre  morning  there  came  a  stream 
of  sunshine,  wrapping  her  in  warmth  and  light 
where  she  sat  in  stony  stillness.  She  moved 
gently  and  looked  round  her,  —  there  was  a 
world  outside  this  bad  dream,  and  the  dream 
proved  nothing;  she  rose,  stretching  her  arms 
upward  and  clasping  her  hands  with  her  habitual 
attitude  when  she  was  seeking  relief  from  op- 
pressive feeling,  and  walked  about  the  room  in 
this  flood  of  sunbeams. 

"  It  is  not  true !  What  does  it  matter  whether 
he  believes  it  or  not?  "  This  was  what  she  re- 
peated to  herself,  —  but  this  was  not  her  faith 
come  back  again;  it  was  only  the  desperate 
cry  of  faith,  finding  suffocation  intolerable. 
And  how  could  she  go  on  through  the  day  in 
this  state?  With  one  of  her  impetuous  alter- 
nations, her  imagination  flew  to  wild  actions  by 
which  she  would  convince  herself  of  what  she 
wished:  she  would  go  to  Lady  Mallinger  and 
question  her  about  Mirah  ;  she  would  write  to 
Deronda  and  upbraid  him  with  making  the 
world  all  false  and  wicked  and  hopeless  to  her, 
—  to  him  she  dared  pour  out  all  the  bitter  in- 
dignation of  her  heart.  No;  she  would  go  to 
Mirah.  This  last  form  taken  by  her  need  was 
more  definitely  practicable,  and  quickly  became 
imperious.    No  matter  what  came  of  it.  She 


64  DANIEL  DERONDA 


had  the  pretext  of  asking  Mirah  to  sing  at  her 
party  on  the  4th.  What  was  she  going  to  say- 
besides?  How  satisfy  herself?  She  did  not 
foresee,  —  she  could  not  wait  to  foresee.  If  that 
idea  which  was  maddening  her  had  been  a  liv- 
ing thing,  she  would  have  wanted  to  throttle  it 
without  waiting  to  foresee  what  would  come 
of  the  act.  She  rang  her  bell  and  asked  if  Mr. 
Grandcourt  were  gone  out :  finding  that  he  was, 
she  ordered  the  carriage,  and  began  to  dress 
for  the  drive;  then  she  went  down,  and  walked 
about  the  large  drawing-room  like  an  impris- 
oned dumb  creature,  not  recognizing  herself  in 
the  glass  panels,  not  noting  any  object  around 
her  in  the  painted  gilded  prison.  Her  husband 
would  probably  find  out  where  she  had  been, 
and  punish  her  in  some  way  or  other  —  no 
matter  —  she  could  neither  desire  nor  fear  any- 
thing just  now  but  the  assurance  that  she  had 
not  been  deluding  herself  in  her  trust. 

She  was  provided  with  Mirah's  address.  Soon 
she  was  on  the  way  with  all  the  fine  equipage 
necessary  to  carry  about  her  poor  uneasy  heart, 
depending  in  its  palpitations  on  some  answer 
or  other  to  questioning  which  she  did  not  know 
how  she  should  put.  She  was  as  heedless  of 
what  happened  before  she  found  that  Miss  Lapi- 
doth  was  at  home,  as  one  is  of  lobbies  and  pas- 
sages on  the  way  to  a  court  of  justice,  —  heed- 
less of  everything  till  she  was  in  a  room  where 
there  were  folding-doors,  and  she  heard  De- 
ronda's  voice  behind  it.  Doubtless  the  identifi- 
cation was  helped  by  forecast,  but  she  was  as 
certain  of  it  as  if  she  had  seen  him.  She  was 
frightened  at  her  own  agitation,  and  began  to 


REVELATIONS  65 


unbutton  her  gloves  that  she  might  button  them 
again,  and  bite  her  hps  over  the  pretended  diffi- 
culty, while  the  d,oor  opened,  and  Mirah  pre- 
sented herself  with  perfect  quietude  and  a  sweet 
smile  of  recognition.  There  was  relief  in  the 
sight  of  her  face,  and  Gwendolen  was  able  to 
smile  in  return,  while  she  put  out  her  hand  in 
silence;  and  as  she  seated  herself,  all  the  while 
hearing  the  voice,  she  felt  some  reflux  of  energy 
in  the  confused  sense  that  the  truth  could  not 
be  anything  that  she  dreaded.  Mirah  drew  her 
chair  very  near,  as  if  she  felt  that  the  sound 
of  the  conversation  should  be  subdued,  and 
looked  at  her  visitor  with  placid  expectation, 
while  Gwendolen  began  in  a  low  tone,  with 
something  that  seemed  like  bashfulness,  — 

"  Perhaps  you  wonder  to  see  me,  —  perhaps 
I  ought  to  have  written,  —  but  I  wished  to  make 
a  particular  request." 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  instead  of  having  a 
letter,"  said  Mirah,  wondering  at  the  changed 
expression  and  manner  of  the  "  Vandyke  duch- 
ess," as  Hans  had  taught  her  to  call  Gwendolen. 
The  rich  colour  and  the  calmness  of  her  own 
face  were  in  strong  contrast  with  the  pale  agi- 
tated beauty  under  the  plumed  hat. 

"  I  thought,"  Gwendolen  went  on — "at  least, 
I  hoped  you  would  not  object  to  sing  at  our 
house  on  the  4th,  —  in  the  evening,  —  at  a  party 
like  Lady  Brackenshaw's.  I  should  be  so  much 
obliged." 

"  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  sing  for  you.  At 
ten?  "  said  Mirah,  while  Gwendolen  seemed  to 
get  more  instead  of  less  embarrassed. 

"  At  ten,  please,"  she  answered;  then  paused, 

VOL.  XIV  —  5 


66  DANIEL  DERONDA 


and  felt  that  she  had  nothing  more  to  say.  She 
could  not  go.  It  was  impossible  to  rise  and 
say  good-by.  Deronda's  voice  was  in  her  ears. 
She  must  say  it  —  she  could  contrive  no  other 
sentence,  — 

"  Mr.  Deronda  is  in  the  next  room." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mirah,  in  her  former  tone.  "  He 
is  reading  Hebrew  with  my  brother." 

"  You  have  a  brother?  "  said  Gwendolen,  who 
had  heard  this  from  Lady  Mallinger,  but  had 
not  minded  it  then. 

"  Yes,  a  dear  brother  who  is  ill  —  consump- 
tive; and  Mr.  Deronda  is  the  best  of  friends 
to  him,  as  he  has  been  to  me,"  said  Mirah,  with 
the  impulse  that  will  not  let  us  pass  the  mention 
of  a  precious  person  indifferently. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Gwendolen,  putting  her  hand 
on  Mirah's,  and  speaking  hardly  above  a  whis- 
per, —  "  tell  me  —  tell  me  the  truth.  You  are 
sure  he  is  quite  good.  You  know  no  evil  of 
him.   Any  evil  that  people  say  of  him  is  false." 

Could  the  proud-spirited  woman  have  behaved 
more  like  a  child?  But  the  strange  words  pene- 
trated Mirah  with  nothing  but  a  sense  of  solem- 
nity and  indignation.  With  a  sudden  light  in 
her  eyes  and  a  tremor  in  her  voice,  she  said,  — 

"Who  are  the  people  that  say  evil  of  him? 
I  would  not  believe  any  evil  of  him,  if  an  angel 
came  to  tell  it  me.  He  found  me  when  I  was 
so  miserable  —  I  was  going  to  drown  myself  — 
I  looked  so  poor  and  forsaken  —  you  would  have 
thought  I  was  a  beggar  by  the  wayside.  And 
he  treated  me  as  if  I  had  been  a  king's  daughter. 
He  took  me  to  the  best  of  women.  He  found 
my  brother  for  me.   And  he  honours  my  brother 


REVELATIONS  67 


—  though  he  too  was  poor  —  oh,  almost  as  poor 
as  he  could  be.  And  my  brother  honours  him. 
That  is  no  light  thing  to  say  "  —  here  Mirah's 
tone  changed  to  one  of  proud  emphasis,  and  she 
shook  her  head  backward  —  "  for  my  brother  is 
very  learned  and  great-minded.  And  Mr.  De- 
ronda  says  there  are  few  men  equal  to  him." 
Some  Jewish  defiance  had  flamed  into  her  in- 
dignant gratitude,  and  her  anger  could  not  help 
including  Gwendolen,  since  she  seemed  to  have 
doubted  Deronda's  goodness. 

But  Gwendolen  was  like  one  parched  with 
thirst,  drinking  the  fresh  water  that  spreads 
through  the  frame  as  a  sufficient  bliss.  She  did 
not  notice  that  Mirah  was  angry  with  her;  she 
was  not  distinctly  conscious  of  anything  but  of 
the  penetrating  sense  that  Deronda  and  his  life 
were  no  more  like  her  husband's  conception  than 
the  morning  in  the  horizon  was  like  the  morn- 
ing mixed  with  street  gas:  even  Mirah's  words 
seemed  to  melt  into  the  indefiniteness  of  her 
relief.  She  could  hardly  have  repeated  them, 
or  said  how  her  whole  state  of  feeling  was 
changed.  She  pressed  Mirah's  hand,  and  said, 
"  Thank  you,  thank  you,"  in  a  hurried  whisper, 
then  rose,  and  added,  with  only  a  hazy  con- 
sciousness, "  I  must  go,  I  shall  see  you  —  on 
the  4th  —  I  am  so  much  obliged  "  —  bowing 
herself  out  automatically;  while  Mirah,  open- 
ing the  door  for  her,  wondered  at  what  seemed 
a  sudden  retreat  into  chill  loftiness. 

Gwendolen,  indeed,  had  no  feeling  to  spare 
in  any  effusiveness  towards  the  creature  who 
had  brought  her  relief.  The  passionate  need 
of  contradiction  to  Grandcourt's  estimate  of 


68  DANIEL  DERONDA 


Deronda,  a  need  which  had  blunted  her  sensi- 
bility to  everything  else,  was  no  sooner  satisfied 
than  she  wanted  to  be  gone:  she  began  to  be 
aware  that  she  was  out  of  place,  and  to  dread 
Deronda's  seeing  her.  And  once  in  the  car- 
riage again,  she  had  the  vision  of  what  awaited 
her  at  home.  When  she  drew  up  before  the 
door  in  Grosvenor  Square,  her  husband  was 
arriving  with  a  cigar  between  his  fingers.  He 
threw  it  away  and  handed  her  out,  accompany- 
ing her  upstairs.  She  turned  into  the  drawing- 
room,  lest  he  should  follow  her  farther  and  give 
her  no  place  to  retreat  to;  then  sat  down  with 
a  weary  air,  taking  off  her  gloves,  rubbing  her 
hand  over  her  forehead,  and  making  his  pres- 
ence as  much  of  a  cipher  as  possible.  But  he 
sat  too,  and  not  far  from  her,  —  just  in  front, 
where  to  avoid  looking  at  him  must  have  the 
emphasis  of  effort. 

"  May  I  ask  where  you  have  been  at  this 
extraordinary  hour?  "  said  Grandcourt. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  have  been  to  Miss  Lapidoth's  to 
ask  her  to  come  and  sing  for  us,"  said  Gwen- 
dolen, laying  her  gloves  on  the  little  table  beside 
her,  and  looking  down  at  them. 

"  And  to  ask  her  about  her  relations  with 
Deronda?"  said  Grandcourt,  with  the  coldest 
possible  sneer  in  his  low  voice,  which  in  poor 
Gwendolen's  ear  was  diabolical. 

For  the  first  time  since  their  marriage  she 
flashed  out  upon  him  without  inward  check. 
Turning  her  eyes  full  on  his,  she  said  in  a  bit- 
ing tone,  — 

"  Yes;  and  what  you  said  is  false,  —  a  low, 
wicked  falsehood." 


REVELATIONS  69 


"She  told  you  so,  —  did  she?"  returned 
Grandcourt,  with  a  more  thoroughly  distilled 
sneer. 

Gwendolen  was  mute.  The  daring  anger 
within  her  was  turned  into  the  rage  of  dumb- 
ness. What  reasons  for  her  belief  could  she 
give?  All  the  reasons  that  seemed  so  strong 
and  living  within  her,  —  she  saw  them  suffo- 
cated and  shrivelled  up  under  her  husband's 
breath.  There  was  no  proof  to  give,  but  her 
own  impression,  which  would  seem  to  him  her 
own  folly.  She  turned  her  head  quickly  away 
from  him,  and  looked  angrily  towards  the  end 
of  the  room;  she  would  have  risen,  but  he  was 
in  her  way. 

Grandcourt  saw  his  advantage.  "  It 's  of 
no  consequence  so  far  as  her  singing  goes,"  he 
said,  in  his  superficial  drawl.  "  You  can  have 
her  to  sing,  if  you  like."  Then  after  a  pause, 
he  added  in  his  lowest  imperious  tone:  "But 
you  will  please  to  observe  that  you  are  not  to 
go  near  that  house  again.  As  my  wife,  you 
must  take  my  word  about  what  is  proper  for 
you.  When  you  undertook  to  be  Mrs.  Grand- 
court,  you  undertook  not  to  make  a  fool  of 
yourself.  You  have  been  making  a  fool  of  your- 
self this  morning;  and  if  you  were  to  go  on 
as  you  have  begun,  you  might  soon  get  your- 
self talked  of  at  the  clubs  in  a  way  you  would 
not  like.  What  do  you  know  about  the  world? 
You  have  married  me,  and  must  be  guided  by 
my  opinion." 

Every  slow  sentence  of  that  speech  had  a  ter- 
rific mastery  in  it  for  Gwendolen's  nature.  If 
the  low  tones  had  come  from  a  physician  telling 


70  DANIEL  DERONDA 


her  that  her  symptoms  were  those  of  a  fatal 
disease,  and  prognosticating  its  course,  she  could 
not  have  been  more  helpless  against  the  argu- 
ment that  lay  in  it.  But  she  was  permitted  to 
move  now,  and  her  husband  never  again  made 
any  reference  to  what  had  occurred  this  morn- 
ing. He  knew  the  force  of  his  own  words.  If 
this  white-handed  man  with  the  perpendicular 
profile  had  been  sent  to  govern  a  difficult  colony, 
he  might  have  won  reputation  among  his  con- 
temporaries. He  had  certainly  ability,  would 
have  understood  that  it  was  safer  to  exterminate 
than  to  cajole  superseded  proprietors,  and  would 
not  have  flinched  from  making  things  safe  in 
that  way. 

Gwendolen  did  not,  for  all  this,  part  with  her 
recovered  faith;  rather,  she  kept  it  with  a  more 
anxious  tenacity,  as  a  Protestant  of  old  kept  his 
Bible  hidden  or  a  Catholic  his  crucifix,  accord- 
ing to  the  side  favoured  by  the  civil  arm;  and 
it  was  characteristic  of  her  that  apart  from  the 
impression  gained  concerning  Deronda  in  that 
visit,  her  imagination  was  little  occupied  with 
Mirah  or  the  eulogized  brother.  The  one  result 
established  for  her  was,  that  Deronda  had  acted 
simply  as  a  generous  benefactor,  and  the  phrase 
"  reading  Hebrew  "  had  fleeted  unimpressively 
across  her  sense  of  hearing,  as  a  stray  stork 
might  have  made  its  peculiar  flight  across  her 
landscape  without  rousing  any  surprised  reflec- 
tion on  its  natural  history. 

But  the  issue  of  that  visit,  as  it  regarded  her 
husband,  took  a  strongly  active  part  in  the 
process  which  made  an  habitual  conflict  within 
her,  and  was  the  cause  of  some  external  change 


REVELATIONS  71 


perhaps  not  observed  by  any  one  except  De- 
ronda.  As  the -weeks  went  on  bringing  occa- 
sional transient  interviews  with  her,  he  thought 
that  he  perceived  in  her  an  intensifying  of  her 
superficial  hardness  and  resolute  display,  which 
made  her  abrupt  betrayals  of  agitation  the  more 
marked  and  disturbing  to  him. 

In  fact,  she  was  undergoing  a  sort  of  disci- 
pline for  the  refractory  which,  as  little  as  pos- 
sible like  conversion,  bends  half  the  self  with  a 
terrible  strain,  and  exasperates  the  unwilling- 
ness of  the  other  half.  Grandcourt  had  an  active 
divination  rather  than  discernment  of  refrac- 
toriness in  her,  and  what  had  happened  about 
Mirah  quickened  his  suspicion  that  there  was  an 
increase  of  it  dependent  on  the  occasions  when 
she  happened  to  see  Deronda:  there  was  some 
confounded  nonsense  "  between  them:  he  did 
not  imagine  it  exactly  as  flirtation,  and  his 
imagination  in  other  branches  was  rather  re- 
stricted ;  but  it  was  nonsense  that  evidently  kept 
up  a  kind  of  simmering  in  her  mind,  —  an  in- 
ward action  which  might  become  disagreeably 
outward.  Husbands  in  the  old  time  are  known 
to  have  suffered  from  a  threatening  devoutness 
in  their  wives,  presenting  itself  first  indistinctly 
as  oddity,  and  ending  in  that  mild  form  of  luna- 
tic asylum,  a  nunnery :  Grandcourt  had  a  vague 
perception  of  threatening  moods  in  Gwendolen 
which  the  unity  between  them  in  his  views  of 
marriage  required  him  peremptorily  to  check. 
Among  the  means  he  chose,  one  was  peculiar, 
and  was  less  ably  calculated  than  the  speeches 
we  have  just  heard. 

He  determined  that  she  should  know  the  main 


72  DANIEL  DERONDA 


purport  of  the  will  he  was  making,  but  he  could 
not  communicate  this  himself,  because  it  involved 
the  fact  of  his  relation  to  Mrs.  Glasher  and  her 
children;  and  that  there  should  be  any  overt 
recognition  of  this  between  Gwendolen  and  him- 
self was  supremely  repugnant  to  him.  Like  all 
proud,  closely  wrapped  natures,  he  shrank  from 
explicitness  and  detail,  even  on  trivialities,  if 
they  were  personal:  a  valet  must  maintain  a 
strict  reserve  with  him  on  the  subject  of  shoes 
and  stockings.  And  clashing  was  intolerable  to 
him:  his  habitual  want  was  to  put  collision  out 
of  the  question  by  the  quiet  massive  pressure  of 
his  rule.  But  he  wished  Gwendolen  to  know 
that  before  he  made  her  an  offer  it  was  no  secret 
to  him  that  she  was  aware  of  his  relations  with 
Lydia,  her  previous  knowledge  being  the  apol- 
ogy for  bringing  the  subject  before  her  now. 
Some  men  in  his  place  might  have  thought  of 
writing  what  he  wanted  her  to  know,  in  the  form 
of  a  letter.  But  Grandcourt  hated  writing: 
even  writing  a  note  was  a  bore  to  him,  and  he 
had  long  been  accustomed  to  have  all  his  writing 
done  by  Lush.  We  know  that  there  are  persons 
who  will  forego  their  own  obvious  interest  rather 
than  do  anything  so  disagreeable  as  to  write  let- 
ters; and  it  is  not  probable  that  these  imperfect 
utilitarians  would  rush  into  manuscript  and  syn- 
tax on  a  difficult  subject  in  order  to  save  an- 
other's feelings.  To  Grandcourt  it  did  not  even 
occur  that  he  should,  would,  or  could  write  to 
Gwendolen  the  information  in  question;  and  the 
only  medium  of  communication  he  could  use  was 
Lush,  who,  to  his  mind,  was  as  much  of  an  im- 
plement as  pen  and  paper.  But  here  too  Grand- 


REVELATIONS 


73 


court  had  his  reserves,  and  would  not  have 
uttered  a  word  likely  to  encourage  Lush  in  an 
impudent  sympathy  with  any  supposed  griev- 
ance in  a  marriage  which  had  been  discom- 
mended by  him.  Who  that  has  a  confidant  es- 
capes believing  too  little  in  his  penetration,  and 
too  much  in  his  discretion?  Grandcourt  had 
always  allowed  Lush  to  know  his  external  affairs 
indiscriminately,  irregularities,  debts,  want  of 
ready  money;  he  had  only  used  discrimination 
about  what  he  would  allow  his  confidant  to  say 
to  him;  and  he  had  been  so  accustomed  to  this 
human  tool,  that  the  having  him  at  call  in  Lon- 
don was  a  recovery  of  lost  ease.  It  followed  that 
Lush  knew  all  the  provisions  of  the  will  more 
exactly  than  they  were  known  to  the  testator 
himself. 

Grandcourt  did  not  doubt  that  Gwendolen, 
since  she  was  a  woman  who  could  put  two  and 
two  together,  knew  or  suspected  Lush  to  be  the 
contriver  of  her  interview  with  Lydia,  and  that 
this  was  the  reason  why  her  first  request  was  for 
his  banishment.  But  the  bent  of  a  woman's 
inferences  on  mixed  subjects  which  excite  mixed 
passions  is  not  determined  by  her  capacity  for 
simple  addition;  and  here  Grandcourt  lacked 
the  only  organ  of  thinking  that  could  have  saved 
him  from  mistake,  —  namely,  some  experience 
of  the  mixed  passions  concerned.  He  had  cor- 
rectly divined  one  half  of  Gwendolen's  dread,  — 
all  that  related  to  her  personal  pride,  and  her 
perception  that  his  will  must  conquer  hers;  but 
the  remorseful  half,  even  if  he  had  known  of  her 
broken  promise,  was  as  much  out  of  his  imagi- 
nation as  the  other  side  of  the  moon.   What  he 


74  DANIEL  DERONDA 


believed  her  to  feel  about  Lydia  was  solely  a 
tongue-tied  jealousy,  and  what  he  believed 
Lydia  to  have  written  with  the  jewels  was  the 
fact  that  she  had  once  been  used  to  wearing 
them,  with  other  amenities  such  as  he  imputed 
to  the  intercourse  of  jealous  women.  He  had 
the  triumphant  certainty  that  he  could  aggra- 
vate the  jealousy  and  yet  smite  it  with  a  more 
absolute  dumbness.  His  object  was  to  engage 
all  his  wife's  egoism  on  the  same  side  as  his  own, 
and  in  his  employment  of  Lush  he  did  not  in- 
tend an  insult  to  her:  she  ought  to  understand 
that  he  was  the  only  possible  envoy.  Grand- 
court's  view  of  things  was  considerably  fenced 
in  by  his  general  sense  that  what  suited  him 
others  must  put  up  with.  There  is  no  escaping 
the  fact  that  want  of  sympathy  condemns  us 
to  a  corresponding  stupidity.  Mephistopheles 
thrown  upon  real  life,  and  obliged  to  manage  his 
own  plots,  would  inevitably  make  blunders. 

One  morning  he  went  to  Gwendolen  in  the 
boudoir  beyond  the  back  drawing-room,  hat  and 
gloves  in  hand,  and  said  with  his  best-tempered, 
most  persuasive  drawl,  standing  before  her  and 
looking  down  on  her  as  she  sat  with  a  book  on 
her  lap,  — 

"A  —  Gwendolen,  there 's  some  business 
about  property  to  be  explained.  I  have  told 
Lush  to  come  and  explain  it  to  you.  He  knows 
all  about  these  things.  I  am  going  out.  He 
can  come  up  now.  He 's  the  only  person  who 
can  explain.    I  suppose  you  '11  not  mind." 

"  You  know  that  I  do  mind,"  said  Gwendo- 
len, angrily,  starting  up.  "  I  shall  not  see  him." 
She  showed  the  intention  to  dart  away  to  the 


REVELATIONS  75 


door.  Grandcourt  was  before  her,  with  his  back 
towards  it.  He  was  prepared  for  her  anger,  and 
showed  none  in  return,  saying,  with  the  same 
sort  of  remonstrant  tone  that  he  might  have 
used  about  an  objection  to  dining  out,  — 
.  "  It 's  no  use  making  a  fuss.  There  are  plenty 
of  brutes  in  the  world  that  one  has  to  talk  to. 
People  with  any  savoir  vivre  don't  make  a  fuss 
about  such  things.  Some  business  must  be  done. 
You  don't  expect  agreeable  people  to  do  it.  If 
I  employ  Lush,  the  proper  thing  for  you  is  to 
take  it  as  a  matter  of  course.  Not  to  make  a 
fuss  about  it.  Not  to  toss  your  head  and  bite 
your  lips  about  people  of  that  sort." 

The  drawling  and  the  pauses  with  which  this 
speech  was  uttered  gave  time  for  croAvding  re- 
flections in  Gwendolen,  quelling  her  resistance. 
What  was  there  to  be  told  her  about  property? 
This  word  had  certain  dominant  associations  for 
her,  first  with  her  mother,  then  with  Mrs.  Glasher 
and  her  children.  What  would  be  the  use  if 
she  refused  to  see  Lush?  Could  she  ask  Grand- 
court  to  tell  her  himself?  That  might  be  intol- 
erable, even  if  he  consented,  which  it  was  certain 
he  would  not,  if  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
the  contrary.  The  humiliation  of  standing  an 
obvious  prisoner,  with  her  husband  barring  the 
door,  was  not  to  be  borne  any  longer,  and  she 
turned  away  to  lean  against  a  cabinet,  while 
Grandcourt  again  moved  towards  her. 

"  I  have  arranged  with  Lush  to  come  up  now, 
while  I  am  out,"  he  said,  after  a  long  organ 
stop,  during  which  Gwendolen  made  no  sign* 
"  Shall  I  tell  him  he  may  come? " 

Yet  another  pause  before  she  could  say 


76  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  Yes  "  —  her  face  turned  obliquely  and  her 
eyes  cast  down. 

"  I  shall  come  back  in  time  to  ride,  if  you  like 
to  get  ready,"  said  Grandcourt.  No  answer. 
"  She  is  in  a  desperate  rage,"  thought  he.  But 
the  rage  was  silent,  and  therefore  not  disagree- 
able to  him.  It  followed  that  he  turned  her 
chin  and  kissed  her,  while  she  still  kept  her 
eyelids  down,  and  she  did  not  move  them  until 
he  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  door. 

What  was  she  to  do?  Search  where  she  would 
in  her  consciousness,  she  found  no  plea  to  justify 
a  plaint.  Any  romantic  illusions  she  had  had  in 
marrying  this  man  had  turned  on  her  power  of 
using  him  as  she  liked.  He  was  using  her  as 
he  hked. 

She  sat  awaiting  the  announcement  of  Lush 
as  a  sort  of  searing  operation  that  she  had  to 
go  through.  The  facts  that  galled  her  gathered 
a  burning  power  when  she  thought  of  their 
lying  in  his  mind.  It  was  all  a  part  of  that 
new  gambling  in  which  the  losing  was  not  simply 
a  minus,  but  a  terrible  plus  that  had  never  en- 
tered into  her  reckoning. 

Lush  was  neither  quite  pleased  nor  quite  dis- 
pleased with  his  task.  Grandcourt  had  said  to 
him  by  way  of  conclusion,  "  Don't  make  your- 
self  more   disagreeable   than   nature  obliges 

you." 

"  That  depends,"  thought  Lush.  But  he  said, 
"  I  will  write  a  brief  abstract  for  Mrs.  Grand- 
court  to  read."  He  did  not  suggest  that  he 
should  make  the  whole  communication  in  writ- 
ing, which  was  a  proof  that  the  interview  did 
not  wholly  displease  him. 


REVELATIONS 


77 


Some  provision  was  being  made  for  himself 
in  the  will,  and  he  had  no  reason  to  be  in  a  bad 
humour,  even  if  a  bad  humour  had  been  com- 
mon with  him.  He  was  perfectly  convinced 
that  he  had  penetrated  all  the  secrets  of  the 
situation;  but  he  had  no  diabolic  delight  in  it. 
He  had  only  the  small  movements  of  gratified 
self -loving  resentment  in  discerning  that  this 
marriage  fulfilled  his  own  foresight  in  not  being 
as  satisfactory  as  the  supercilious  young  lady 
had  expected  it  to  be,  and  as  Grandcourt  wished 
to  feign  that  it  was.  He  had  no  persistent  spite 
much  stronger  than  what  gives  the  seasoning 
of  ordinary  scandal  to  those  who  repeat  it  and 
exaggerate  it  by  their  conjectures.  With  no 
active  compassion  or  good- will,  he  had  just  as 
little  active  malevolence,  being  chiefly  occupied 
in  liking  his  particular  pleasures,  and  not  dis- 
liking anything  but  what  hindered  those  pleas- 
ures, —  everything  else  ranking  with  the  last 
murder  and  the  last  opera  huff  a,  under  the  head 
of  things  to  talk  about.  Nevertheless,  he  was 
not  indifferent  to  the  prospect  of  being  treated 
uncivilly  by  a  beautiful  woman,  or  to  the  counter- 
balancing fact  that  his  present  commission  put 
into  his  hands  an  official  power  of  humiliating 
her.  He  did  not  mean  to  use  it  needlessly;  but 
there  are  some  persons  so  gifted  in  relation  to 
us  that  their  "  How  do  you  do?  "  seems  charged 
with  offence. 

By  the  time  that  Mr.  Lush  was  announced, 
Gwendolen  had  braced  herself  to  a  bitter  resolve 
that  he  should  not  witness  the  slightest  betrayal 
of  her  feeling,  whatever  he  might  have  to  tell. 
She  invited  him  to  sit  down  with  stately  quietude. 


78  DANIEL  DERONDA 


After  all,  what  was  this  man  to  her?  He  was 
not  in  the  least  like  her  husband.  Her  power  of 
hating  a  coarse,  familiar-mannered  man,  with 
clumsy  hands,  was  now  relaxed  by  the  intensity 
with  which  she  hated  his  contrast. 

He  held  a  small  paper  folded  in  his  hand  while 
he  spoke. 

"  I  need  hardly  say  that  I  should  not  have 
presented  myself  if  Mr.  Grandcourt  had  not 
expressed  a  strong  wish  to  that  effect,  —  as  no 
doubt  he  has  mentioned  to  you." 

From  some  voices  that  speech  might  have 
sounded  entirely  reverential,  and  even  timidly 
apologetic.  Lush  had  no  intention  to  the  con- 
trary, but  to  Gwendolen's  ear  his  words  had  as 
much  insolence  in  them  as  his  prominent  eyes, 
and  the  pronoun  "  you  "  was  too  familiar.  He 
ought  to  have  addressed  the  folding-screen,  and 
spoken  of  her  as  Mrs.  Grandcourt.  She  gave 
the  smallest  sign  of  a  bow,  and  Lush  went  on, 
with  a  little  awkwardness,  getting  entangled  in 
what  is  elegantly  called  tautology :  — 

"  My  having  been  in  Mr.  Grandcourt's  con- 
fidence for  fifteen  years  or  more  —  since  he  was 
a  youth,  in  fact  —  of  course  gives  me  a  peculiar 
position.  He  can  speak  to  me  of  affairs  that 
he  could  not  mention  to  any  one  else;  and,  in 
fact,  he  could  not  have  employed  any  one  else 
in  this  affair.  I  have  accepted  the  task  out  of 
friendship  for  him.  Which  is  my  apology  for 
accepting  the  task,  —  if  you  would  have  pre- 
ferred, some  one  else." 

He  paused,  but  she  made  no  sign,  and  Lush, 
to  give  himself  a  countenance  in  an  apology 
which  met  no  acceptance,  opened  the  folded 


REVELATIONS 


79 


paper,  and  looked  at  it  vaguely  before  he  began 
to  speak  again. 

"  This  paper  contains  some  information  about 
Mr.  Grandcourt's  will,  an  abstract  of  a  part  he 
wished  you  to  know,  —  if  you  '11  be  good  enough 
to  cast  your  eyes  over  it.  But  there  is  something 
I  had  to  say  by  way  of  introduction,  —  which 
I  hope  you  '11  pardon  me  for,  if  it 's  not  quite 
agreeable."  Lush  found  that  he  was  behaving 
better  than  he  had  expected,  and  had  no  idea  how 
insulting  he  made  himself  with  his  "  not  quite 
agreeable." 

"Say  what  you  have  to  say  without  apologiz- 
ing, please,"  said  Gwendolen,  with  the  air  she 
might  have  bestowed  on  a  dog-stealer  come  to 
claim  a  reward  for  finding  the  dog  he  had  stolen. 

"  I  have  only  to  remind  you  of  something  that 
occurred  before  your  engagement  to  Mr.  Grand- 
court,"  said  Lush,  not  without  the  rise  of  some 
willing  insolence  in  exchange  for  her  scorn. 
"  You  met  a  lady  in  Cardell  Chase,  if  you  re- 
member, who  spoke  to  you  of  her  position  with 
regard  to  Mr.  Grandcourt.  She  had  children 
with  her,  —  one  a  very  fine  boy." 

Gwendolen's  lips  were  almost  as  pale  as  her 
cheeks :  her  passion  had  no  weapons,  —  words 
were  no  better  than  chips.  This  man's  speech 
was  like  a  sharp  knife-edge  drawn  across  her 
skin;  but  even  her  indignation  at  the  employ- 
ment of  Lush  was  getting  merged  in  a  crowd  of 
other  feelings,  dim  and  alarming  as  a  crowd  of 
ghosts. 

"  Mr.  Grandcourt  was  aware  that  you  were 
acquainted  with  this  unfortunate  affair  before- 
hand, and  he  thinks  it  only  right  that  his  posi- 


80  DANIEL  DERONDA 


tion  and  intentions  should  be  made  quite  clear  to 
you.  It  is  an  affair  of  property  and  prospects; 
and  if  there  were  any  objection  you  had  to  make, 
if  you  would  mention  it  to  me,  —  it  is  a  subject 
which  of  course  he  would  rather  not  speak  about 
himself,  —  if  you  will  be  good  enough  just  to 
read  this."  With  the  last  words  Lush  rose  and 
presented  the  paper  to  her. 

When  Gwendolen  resolved  that  she  would 
betray  no  feeling  in  the  presence  of  this  man, 
she  had  not  prepared  herself  to  hear  that  her  hus- 
band knew  the  silent  consciousness,  the  silently 
accepted  terms  on  which  she  had  married  him. 
She  dared  not  raise  her  hand  to  take  the  paper, 
lest  it  should  visibly  tremble.  For  a  moment 
Lush  stood  holding  it  towards  her,  and  she  felt 
his  gaze  on  her  as  ignominy,  before  she  could  say 
even  with  low-toned  haughtiness,  — 

"  Lay  it  on  the  table.  And  go  into  the  next 
room,  please." 

Lush  obeyed,  thinking,  as  he  took  an  easy- 
chair  in  the  back  drawing-room,  "  My  lady 
winces  considerably.  She  didn't  know  what 
would  be  the  charge  for  that  superfine  article, 
Henleigh  Grandcourt."  But  it  seemed  to  him 
that  a  penniless  girl  had  done  better  than  she 
had  any  right  to  expect  and  that  she  had  been 
uncommonly  knowing  for  her  years  and  oppor- 
tunities: her  words  to  Lydia  meant  nothing, 
and  her  running  away  had  probably  been  part 
of  her  adroitness.  It  had  turned  out  a  master- 
stroke. 

Meanwhile  Gwendolen  was  rallying  her  nerves 
to  the  reading  of  the  paper.  She  must  read  it. 
Her  whole  being,  —  pride,  longing  for  rebellion. 


REVELATIONS 


81 


dreams  of  freedom,  remorseful  conscience,  dread 
of  fresh  visitation,  —  all  made  one  need  to  know 
what  the  paper  contained.  But  at  first  it  was  not 
easy  to  take  in  the  meaning  of  the  words.  When 
she  had  succeeded,  she  found  that  in  the  case  of 
there  being  no  son  as  issue  of  her  marriage, 
Grandcourt  had  made  the  small  Henleigh  his 
heir:  that  was  all  she  cared  to  extract  from  the 
paper  with  any  distinctness.  The  other  state- 
ments as  to  what  provision  would  be  made  for 
her  in  the  same  case,  she  hurried  over,  getting 
only  a  confused  perception  of  thousands  and 
Gadsmere.  It  was  enough.  She  could  dismiss 
the  man  in  the  next  room  with  the  defiant  energy 
which  had  revived  in  her  at  the  idea  that  this 
question  of  property  and  inheritance  was  meant 
as  a  finish  to  her  humiliations  and  her  thraldom. 

She  thrust  the  paper  between  the  leaves  of 
her  book,  which  she  took  in  her  hand,  and  walked 
with  her  stateliest  air  into  the  next  room,  where 
Lush  immediately  rose,  awaiting  her  approach. 
When  she  was  four  yards  from  him,  it  was 
hardly  an  instant  that  she  paused  to  say  in  a  high 
tone,  while  she  swept  him  with  her  eyelashes,  — 

"  Tell  Mr.  Grandcourt  that  his  arrangements 
are  just  what  I  desired,"  —  passing  on  without 
haste,  and  leaving  Lush  time  to  mingle  some 
admiration  of  her  graceful  back  with  that  half- 
amused  sense  of  her  spirit  and  impertinence, 
which  he  expressed  by  raising  his  eyebrows  and 
just  thrusting  his  tongue  between  his  teeth.  He 
really  did  not  want  her  to  be  worse  punished,  and 
he  was  glad  to  think  that  it  was  time  to  go  and 
lunch  at  the  club,  where  he  meant  to  have  a  lob- 
ster salad. 

VOL.  XIV  —  6 


82  DANIEL  DERONDA 

What  did  Gwendolen  look  forward  to  ?  When 
her  husband  returned  he  found  her  equipped  in 
her  riding-dress,  ready  to  ride  out  with  him.  She 
was  not  again  going  to  be  hysterical,  or  take  to 
her  bed  and  say  she  was  ill.  That  was  the  im- 
plicit resolve  adjusting  her  muscles  before  she 
could  have  framed  it  in  words,  as  she  walked  out 
of  the  room,  leaving  Lush  behind  her.  She  was 
going  to  act  in  the  spirit  of  her  message,  and  not 
to  give  herself  time  to  reflect.  She  rang  the  bell 
for  her  maid,  and  went  with  the  usual  care 
through  her  change  of  toilet.  Doubtless  her 
husband  had  meant  to  produce  a  great  effect  on 
her :  by  and  by  perhaps  she  would  let  him  see  an 
effect  the  very  opposite  of  what  he  intended; 
but  at  present  all  that  she  could  show  was  a  de- 
fiant satisfaction  in  what  had  been  presumed  to 
be  disagreeable.  It  came  as  an  instinct  rather 
than  a  thought,  that  to  show  any  sign  which 
could  be  interpreted  as  jealousy,  when  she  had 
just  been  insultingly  reminded  that  the  condi- 
tions were  what  she  had  accepted  with  her  eyes 
open,  would  be  the  worst  self-humiliation.  She 
said  to  herself  that  she  had  not  time  to-day  to 
be  clear  about  her  future  actions;  all  she  could 
be  clear  about  was  that  she  would  match  her 
husband  in  ignoring  any  ground  for  excitement. 
She  not  only  rode,  but  went  out  with  him  to  dine, 
contributing  nothing  to  alter  their  mutual  man- 
ner, which  was  never  that  of  rapid  interchange 
in  discourse;  and  curiously  enough  she  rejected 
a  handkerchief  on  which  her  maid  had  by  mis- 
take put  the  wrong  scent,  —  a  scent  that  Grand- 
court  had  once  objected  to.  Gwendolen  would 
not  have  liked  to  be  an  object  of  disgust  to  this 


REVELATIONS  83 


husband  whom  she  hated:  she  liked  all  disgust 
to  be  on  her  side. 

But  to  defer  thought  in  tliis  way  was  some- 
thing like  trying  to  talk  down  the  singing  in  her 
own  ears.  The  thought  that  is  bound  up  with  our 
passion  is  as  penetrative  as  air,  —  everything  is 
porous  to  it;  bows,  smiles,  conversation,  rep- 
artee, are  mere  honeycombs  where  such  thought 
rushes  freely,  not  always  with  a  taste  of  honey. 
And  without  shutting  herself  up  in  any  solitude, 
Gwendolen  seemed  at  the  end  of  nine  or  ten 
hours  to  have  gone  through  a  labyrinth  of  reflec- 
tion, in  which  already  the  same  succession  of 
prospects  had  been  repeated,  the  same  fallacious 
outlets  rejected,  the  same  shrinking  from  the 
necessities  of  every  course.  Already  she  was 
undergoing  some  hardening  effect  from  feeling 
that  she  was  under  eyes  which  saw  her  past 
actions  solely  in  the  light  of  her  lowest  motives. 
She  lived  back  in  the  scenes  of  her  courtship,  with 
the  new  bitter  consciousness  of  what  had  been  in 
Grandcourt's  mind,  —  certain  now,  with  her 
present  experience  of  him,  that  he  had  had  a 
peculiar  triumph  in  conquering  her  dumb  repug- 
nance, and  that  ever  since  their  marriage  he  had 
had  a  cold  exultation  in  knowing  her  fancied 
secret.  Her  imagination  exaggerated  every 
tyrannical  impulse  he  was  capable  of.  "I  will 
insist  on  being  separated  from  him  "  —  was  her 
first  darting  determination ;  then,  "  I  will  leave 
him,  whether  he  consents  or  not.  If  this  boy 
becomes  his  heir,  I  have  made  an  atonement." 
But  neither  in  darkness  nor  in  daylight  could 
she  imagine  the  scenes  which  must  carry  out 
those  determinations  with  the  courage  to  feel 


84  DANIEL  DERONDA 


them  endurable.  How  could  she  run  away  to  her 
own  family,  —  carry  distress  among  them,  and 
render  herself  an  object  of  scandal  in  the  society 
she  had  left  behind  her?  What  future  lay  before 
her  as  Mrs.  Grandcourt  gone  back  to  her  mother, 
who  would  be  made  destitute  again  by  the  rup- 
ture of  the  marriage  for  which  one  chief  excuse 
had  been  that  it  had  brought  that  mother  a 
maintenance?  She  had  lately  been  seeing  her 
uncle  and  Anna  in  London,  and  though  she  had 
been  saved  from  any  difficulty  about  inviting 
them  to  stay  in  Grosvenor  Square  by  their  wish 
to  be  with  Rex,  who  would  not  risk  a  meeting 
with  her,  the  transient  visit  she  had  had  from 
them  helped  now  in  giving  stronger  colour  to  the 
picture  of  what  it  would  be  for  her  to  take  refuge 
in  her  own  family.  What  could  she  say  to  jus- 
tify her  flight?  Her  uncle  would  tell  her  to  go 
back.  Her  mother  would  cry.  Her  aunt  and 
Anna  would  look  at  her  with  wondering  alarm. 
Her  husband  would  have  power  to  compel  her. 
She  had  absolutely  nothing  that  she  could  allege 
against  him  in  judicious  or  judicial  ears.  And 
to  "insist  on  separation!"  That  was  an  easy 
combination  of  words;  but  considered  as  an 
action  to  be  executed  against  Grandcourt,  it 
would  be  about  as  practicable  as  to  give  him  a 
pliant  disposition  and  a  dread  of  other  people's 
unwillingness.  How  was  she  to  begin?  What 
was  she  to  say  that  would  not  be  a  condemnation 
of  herself?  "  If  I  am  to  have  misery  anyhow," 
was  the  bitter  refrain  of  her  rebellious  dreams, 
"  I  had  better  have  the  misery  that  I  can  keep  to 
myself."  Moreover,  her  capability  of  rectitude 
told  her  again  and  again  that  she  had  no  right 


REVELATIONS  85 


to  complain  of  her  contract  or  to  withdraw 
from  it. 

And  always  among  the  images  that  drove  her 
back  to  submission  was  Deronda.  The  idea  of 
herself  separated  from  her  husband  gave  De- 
ronda a  changed,  perturbing,  painful  place  in 
her  consciousness :  instinctively  she  felt  that  the 
separation  would  be  from  him  too,  and  in  the 
prospective  vision  of  herself  as  a  solitary,  dubi- 
ously regarded  woman,  she  felt  some  tingling 
bashfulness  at  the  remembrance  of  her  behaviour 
towards  him.  The  association  of  Deronda  with 
a  dubious  position  for  herself  was  intolerable. 
And  what  would  he  say  if  he  knew  everything? 
Probably  that  she  ought  to  bear  what  she  had 
brought  on  herself,  unless  she  were  sure  that  she 
could  make  herself  a  better  woman  by  taking 
any  other  course.  And  what  sort  of  woman  was 
she  to  be,  —  solitary,  sickened  of  life,  looked  at 
with  a  suspicious  kind  of  pity?  —  even  if  she 
could  dream  of  success  in  getting  that  dreary 
freedom.  Mrs.  Grandcourt  "  run  away  "  would 
be  a  more  pitiable  creature  than  Gwendolen 
Harleth  condemned  to  teach  the  bishop's 
daughters,  and  to  be  inspected  by  Mrs. 
Mompert. 

One  characteristic  trait  in  her  conduct  is  worth 
mentioning.  She  would  not  look  a  second  time 
at  the  paper  Lush  had  given  her;  and  before 
ringing  for  her  maid  she  locked  it  up  in  a  travel- 
ling-desk which  was  at  hand,  proudly  resolved 
against  curiosity  about  what  was  allotted  to 
herself  in  connection  with  Gadsmere,  —  feel- 
ing herself  branded  in  the  minds  of  her  husband 
and  his  confidant  with  the  meanness  that  would 


86  DANIEL  DERONDA 


accept  marriage  and  wealth  on  any  conditions, 
however  dishonourable  and  humiliating. 

Day  after  day  the  same  pattern  of  thinking 
was  repeated.  There  came  nothing  to  change 
the  situation,  —  no  new  elements  in  the  sketch, 
—  only  a  recurrence  which  engraved  it.  The 
May  weeks  went  on  into  June,  and  still  Mrs. 
Grandcourt  was  outwardly  in  the  same  place, 
presenting  herself  as  she  was  expected  to  do  in 
the  accustomed  scenes,  with  the  accustomed 
grace,  beauty,  and  costume ;  from  church  at  one 
end  of  the  week,  through  all  the  scale  of  desirable 
receptions,  to  opera  at  the  other.  Church  was 
not  markedly  distinguished  in  her  mind  from 
the  other  forms  of  self -presentation,  for  marriage 
had  included  no  instruction  that  enabled  her  to 
connect  liturgy  and  sermon  with  any  larger  or- 
der of  the  world  than  that  of  unexplained  and 
perhaps  inexplicable  social  fashions.  While  a 
laudable  zeal  was  labouring  to  carry  the  light 
of  spiritual  law  up  the  alleys  where  law  is  chiefly 
known  as  the  policeman,  the  brilliant  Mrs. 
Grandcourt,  condescending  a  little  to  a  fashion- 
able Rector  and  conscious  of  a  feminine  advan- 
tage over  a  learned  Dean,  was,  so  far  as  pastoral 
care  and  religious  fellowship  were  concerned,  in 
as  complete  a  solitude  as  a  man  in  a  lighthouse. 

Can  we  wonder  at  the  practical  submission 
which  hid  her  constructive  rebellion?  The  com- 
bination is  common  enough,  as  we  know  from 
the  number  of  persons  who  make  us  aware  of 
it  in  their  own  case  by  a  clamorous  unwearied 
statement  of  the  reasons  against  their  submitting 
to  a  situation  which,  on  inquiry,  we  discover  to 
be  the  least  disagreeable  within  their  reach. 


REVELATIONS  87 


Poor  Gwendolen  had  both  too  much  and  too 
httle  mental  power  and  dignity  to  make  herself 
exceptional.  No  wonder  that  Deronda  now 
marked  some  hardening  in  a  look  and  manner 
which  were  schooled  daily  to  the  suppression  of 
feeling. 

For  example.  One  morning,  riding  in  Rotten 
Row  with  Grandcourt  by  her  side,  she  saw  stand- 
ing against  the  railing  at  the  turn,  just  facing 
them,  a  dark-eyed  lady  with  a  little  girl  and  a 
blond  boy,  whom  she  at  once  recognized  as  the 
beings  in  all  the  world  the  most  painful  for  her 
to  behold.  She  and  Grandcourt  had  just  slack- 
ened their  pace  to  a  walk ;  he  being  on  the  outer 
side  was  the  nearer  to  the  unwelcome  vision,  and 
Gwendolen  had  not  presence  of  mind  to  do  any- 
thing but  glance  away  from  the  dark  eyes  that 
met  hers  piercingly  towards  Grandcourt,  who 
wheeled  past  the  group  with  an  unmoved  face, 
giving  no  sign  of  recognition. 

Immediately  she  felt  a  rising  rage  against  him 
mingling  with  her  shame  for  herself,  and  the 
words,  "  You  might  at  least  have  raised  your  hat 
to  her,"  flew  impetuously  to  her  lips,  —  but  did 
not  pass  them.  If  as  her  husband,  in  her  com- 
pany, he  chose  to  ignore  these  creatures  whom 
she  herself  had  excluded  from  the  place  she  was 
filling,  how  could  she  be  the  person  to  reproach 
him?   She  was  dumb. 

It  was  not  chance,  but  her  own  design,  that 
had  brought  Mrs.  Glasher  there  with  her  boy. 
She  had  come  to  town  under  the  pretext  of  mak- 
ing purchases,  —  really  wanting  educational 
apparatus  for  the  children,  —  and  had  had  inter- 
views with  Lush  in  which  he  had  not  refused  to 


88  DANIEL  DEItONDA 


soothe  her  uneasy  mind  by  representing  the 
probabilities  as  all  on  the  side  of  her  ultimate 
triumph.  Let  her  keep  quiet,  and  she  might 
live  to  see  the  marriage  dissolve  itself  in  one  way 
or  other,  —  Lush  hinted  at  several  ways,  —  leav- 
ing the  succession  assured  to  her  boy.  She  had 
had  an  interview  with  Grandcourt  too,  who  had 
as  usual  told  her  to  behave  like  a  reasonable 
woman,  and  threatened  punishment  if  she  were 
troublesome;  but  had  also,  as  usual,  vindicated 
himself  from  any  wish  to  be  stingy,  the  money 
he  was  receiving  from  Sir  Hugo  on  account  of 
Diplow  encouraging  his  disposition  to  be  lavish. 
Lydia,  feeding  on  the  probabilities  in  her  fa- 
vour, devoured  her  helpless  wrath  along  with  that 
pleasanter  nourishment;  but  she  could  not  let 
her  discretion  go  entirely  without  the  reward  of 
making  a  Medusa-apparition  before  Gwendolen, 
vindictiveness  and  jealousy  finding  relief  in  an 
outlet  of  venom,  though  it  were  as  futile  as  that 
of  a  viper  already  flung  to  the  other  side  of  the 
hedge.  Hence  each  day,  after  finding  out  from 
Lush  the  likely  time  for  Gwendolen  to  be  riding, 
she  had  watched  at  that  post,  daring  Grandcourt 
so  far.  Why  should  she  not  take  little  Hen- 
leigh  into  the  Park? 

The  Medusa-apparition  was  made  effective 
beyond  Lydia 's  conception  by  the  shock  it  gave 
Gwendolen  actually  to  see  Grandcourt  ignor- 
ing this  woman  who  had  once  been  the  nearest 
in  the  world  to  him,  along  with  the  children  she 
had  borne  him.  And  all  the  while  the  dark 
shadow  thus  cast  on  the  lot  of  a  woman  destitute 
of  acknowledged  social  dignity  spread  itself  over 
her  visions  of  a  future  that  might  be  her  own, 


REVELATIONS  89 


and  made  part  of  her  dread  on  her  own  behalf. 
She  shrank  all  the  more  from  any  lonely  action. 
What  possible  release  could  there  be  for  her 
from  this  hated  vantage-ground,  which  yet  she 
dared  not  quit,  any  more  than  if  fire  had  been 
raining  outside  it?  What  release,  but  death? 
Not  her  own  death.  Gwendolen  was  not  a, 
woman  who  could  easily  think  of  her  own  death 
as  a  near  reality,  or  front  for  herself  the  dark 
entrance  on  the  untried  and  invisible.  It  seemed 
more  possible  that  Grandcourt  should  die,  —  and 
yet  not  likely.  The  power  of  tyranny  in  him 
seemed  a  power  of  living  in  the  presence  of  any 
wish  that  he  should  die.  The  thought  that  his 
death  was  the  only  possible  deliverance  for  her 
was  one  with  the  thought  that  deliverance  would 
never  come,  —  the  double  deliverance  from  the 
injury  with  which  other  beings  might  reproach 
her  and  from  the  yoke  she  had  brought  on  her 
own  neck.  No !  she  foresaw  him  always  living, 
and  her  own  life  dominated  by  him;  the 
"  always  "  of  her  young  experience  not  stretch- 
ing beyond  the  few  immediate  years  that  seemed 
immeasurably  long  with  her  passionate  weari- 
ness. The  thought  of  his  dying  would  not  sub- 
sist: it  turned  as  with  a  dream-change  into  the 
terror  that  she  should  die  with  his  throttling 
fingers  on  her  neck  avenging  that  thought. 
Fantasies  moved  within  her  like  ghosts,  making 
no  break  in  her  more  acknowledged  conscious- 
ness and  finding  no  obstruction  in  it :  dark  rays 
doing  their  work  invisibly  in  the  broad  light. 

Only  an  evening  or  two  after  that  encounter 
in  the  Park,  there  was  a  grand  concert  at  Kles- 
mer's,  who  was  living  rather  magnificently  now 


90  DANIEL  DERONDA 


in  one  of  the  large  houses  in  Grosvenor  Place, 
a  patron  and  prince  among  musical  professors. 
Gwendolen  had  looked  forward  to  this  occasion 
as  one  on  which  she  was  sure  to  meet  Deronda, 
and  she  had  been  meditating  how  to  put  a  ques- 
tion to  him  which,  without  containing  a  word 
that  she  would  feel  a  dislike  to  utter,  would  yet 
be  explicit  enough  for  him  to  understand  it. 
The  struggle  of  opposite  feelings  would  not  let 
her  abide  by  her  instinct  that  the  very  idea  of 
Deronda's  relation  to  her  was  a  discouragement 
to  any  desperate  step  towards  freedom.  The 
next  wave  of  emotion  was  a  longing  for  some 
word  of  his  to  enforce  a  resolve.  The  fact  that 
her  opportunities  of  conversation  with  him  had 
always  to  be  snatched  in  the  doubtful  privacy 
of  large  parties,  caused  her  to  live  through  them 
many  times  beforehand,  imagining  how  they 
would  take  place  and  what  she  would  say.  The 
irritation  was  proportionate  when  no  opportun- 
ity came ;  and  this  evening  at  Klesmer's  she  in- 
cluded Deronda  in  her  anger,  because  he  looked 
as  calm  as  possible  at  a  distance  from  her  while 
she  was  in  danger  of  betraying  her  impatience 
to  every  one  who  spoke  to  her.  She  found  her 
only  safety  in  a  chill  haughtiness  which  made 
Mr.  Vandernoodt  remark  that  Mrs.  Grandcourt 
was  becoming  a  perfect  match  for  her  husband. 
When  at  last  the  chances  of  the  evening  brought 
Deronda  near  her.  Sir  Hugo  and  Mrs.  Ray- 
mond were  close  by  and  could  hear  every  word 
she  said.  No  matter :  her  husband  was  not  near, 
and  her  irritation  passed  without  check  into  a 
fit  of  daring  which  restored  the  security  of  her 
self-possession.   Deronda  was  there  at  last,  and 


REVELATIONS  91 


she  would  compel  him  to  do  what  she  pleased. 
Already  and  without  effort  rather  queenly  in 
her  air  as  she  stood  in  her  white  lace  and  green 
leaves,  she  threw  a  royal  permissiveness  into  her 
way  of  saying,  "  I  wish  you  would  come  and 
see  me  to-morrow  between  five  and  six,  Mr. 
Deronda." 

There  could  be  but  one  answer  at  that  mo- 
ment: "  Certainly,"  with  a  tone  of  obedience. 

Afterwards  it  occurred  to  Deronda  that  he 
would  write  a  note  to  excuse  himself.  He  had 
always  avoided  making  a  call  at  Grandcourt's. 
But  he  could  not  persuade  himself  to  any  step 
that  might  hurt  her,  and  whether  his  excuse  were 
taken  for  indifference  or  for  the  affectation  of 
indifference,  it  would  be  equally  wounding.  He 
kept  his  promise.  Gwendolen  had  declined  to 
ride  out  on  the  plea  of  not  feeling  well  enough, 
having  left  her  refusal  to  the  last  moment  when 
the  horses  were  soon  to  be  at  the  door,  —  not 
without  alarm  lest  her  husband  should  say  that 
he  too  would  stay  at  home.  Become  almost 
superstitious  about  his  power  of  suspicious 
divination,  she  had  a  glancing  forethought  of 
what  she  would  do  in  that  case,  —  namely, 
have  herself  denied  as  not  well.  But  Grand- 
court  accepted  her  excuse  without  remark,  and 
rode  off. 

Nevertheless,  when  Gwendolen  found  herself 
alone,  and  had  sent  down  the  order  that  only  Mr. 
Deronda  was  to  be  admitted,  she  began  to  be 
alarmed  at  what  she  had  done,  and  to  feel  a 
growing  agitation  in  the  thought  that  he  would 
soon  appear,  and  she  should  soon  be  obliged  to 
speak:  not  of  trivialities,  as  if  she  had  had  no 


92  DANIEL  DERONDA 


serious  moth^e  in  asking  him  to  come;  and  yet 
what  she  had  been  for  hours  determining  to  S9y 
began  to  seem  impossible.  For  the  first  time  the 
impulse  of  appeal  to  him  was  being  checked  by 
timidity;  and  now  that  it  was  too  late  she  was 
shaken  by  the  possibility  that  he  might  think  her 
invitation  unbecoming.  If  so,  she  would  have 
sunk  in  his  esteem.  But  immediately  she  re- 
sisted this  intolerable  fear  as  an  infection  from 
her  husband's  way  of  thinking.  That  he  would 
say  she  was  making  a  fool  of  herself  was  rather 
a  reason  why  such  a  judgment  would  be  remote 
from  Deronda's  mind.  But  that  she  could  not 
rid  herself  from  this  sudden  invasion  of  womanly 
reticence  was  manifest  in  a  kind  of  action  which 
had  never  occurred  to  her  before.  In  her  strug- 
gle between  agitation  and  the  effort  to  suppress 
it,  she  was  walking  up  and  doira  the  length  of 
two  dra^\dng-rooms,  where  at  one  end  a  long  mir- 
ror reflected  her  in  her  black  dress,  chosen  in  the 
early  morning  ^vith  a  half -admitted  reference 
to  this  hour.  But  above  this  black  dress  her  head 
on  its  white  pillar  of  a  neck  showed  to  advan- 
tage. Some  consciousness  of  this  made  her  turn 
hastily  and  hurry  to  the  boudoir,  where  again 
there  was  glass,  but  also,  tossed  over  a  chair, 
a  large  piece  of  black  lace,  which  she  snatched 
and  tied  over  her  crown  of  hair  so  as  completely 
to  conceal  her  neck,  and  leave  only  her  face  look- 
ing out  from  the  black  frame.  In  this  manifest 
contempt  of  appearance,  she  thought  it  possible 
to  be  freer  from  nervousness ;  but  the  black  lace 
did  not  take  away  the  uneasiness  from  her  eyes 
and  lips. 

She  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room 


REVELATIONS 


93 


when  Deronda  was  announced,  and  as  he  ap- 
proached her  she  perceived  that  he  too  for  some 
reason  was  not  his  usual  self.  She  could  not  have 
defined  the  change  except  by  saying  that  he 
looked  less  happy  than  usual,  and  appeared  to 
be  under  some  effort  in  speaking  to  her.  And 
yet  the  speaking  was  the  slightest  possible. 
They  both  said  "  How  do  you  do?  "  quite  curtly; 
and  Gwendolen,  instead  of  sitting  down,  moved 
to  a  little  distance,  resting  her  arms  slightly  on 
the  tall  back  of  a  chair,  while  Deronda  stood 
where  he  was,  —  both  feeling  it  difficult  to  sa}^ 
anything  more,  though  the  preoccupation  in  his 
mind  could  hardly  have  been  more  remote  than 
it  was  from  Gwendolen's  conception.  She  nat- 
urally saw  in  his  embarrassment  some  reflec- 
tion of  her  own.  Forced  to  speak,  she  found 
all  her  training  in  concealment  and  self-com- 
mand of  no  use  to  her,  and  began  with  timid 
awkwardness,  — 

"  You  will  wonder  why  I  begged  you  to  come, 
I  wanted  to  ask  you  something.  You  said  I  was 
ignorant.  That  is  true.  And  what  can  I  do  but 
ask  you?  " 

And  at  this  moment  she  was  feeling  it  utterly 
impossible  to  put  the  questions  she  had  intended. 
Something  new  in  her  nervous  manner  roused 
Deronda's  anxiety  lest  there  might  be  a  new 
crisis.  He  said  with  the  sadness  of  affection  in 
his  voice,  — 

"  My  only  regret  is,  that  I  can  be  of  so  little 
use  to  you."  The  words  and  the  tone  touched  a 
new  spring  in  her,  and  she  went  on  with  more 
sense  of  freedom,  yet  still  not  saying  anything 
she  had  designed  to  say,  and  beginning  to  hurry, 


94  DANIEL  DERONDA 


that  she  might  somehow  arrive  at  the  right 
words. 

"  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I  have  always  been 
thinking  of  your  advice,  but  is  it  any  use?  — 
I  can't  make  myself  different,  because  things 
about  me  raise  bad  feelings  —  and  I  must  go  on 
—  I  can  alter  nothing  —  it  is  no  use." 

She  paused  an  instant,  with  a  consciousness 
that  she  was  not  finding  the  right  words,  but  be- 
gan again  as  hurriedly:  "  But  if  I  go  on,  I  shall 
get  worse.  I  want  not  to  get  worse.  I  should 
like  to  be  what  you  wish.  There  are  people  who 
are  good  and  enjoy  great  things,  —  I  know  there 
are.  I  am  a  contemptible  creature.  I  feel  as  if 
I  should  get  wicked  with  hating  people.  I  have 
tried  to  think  that  I  would  go  away  from  every- 
body. But  I  can't.  There  are  so  many  things 
to  hinder  me.  You  think,  perhaps,  that  I  don't 
mind.  But  I  do  mind.  I  am  afraid  of  every- 
thing. I  am  afraid  of  getting  wicked.  Tell  me 
what  I  can  do." 

She  had  forgotten  everything  but  that  image 
of  her  helpless  misery  which  she  was  trying  to 
make  present  to  Deronda  in  broken  allusive 
speech  —  wishing  to  convey  but  not  express  all 
her  need.  Her  eyes  were  tearless,  and  had  a  look 
of  smarting  in  their  dilated  brilliancy;  there  was 
a  subdued  sob  in  her  voice  which  was  more  and 
more  veiled,  till  it  was  hardly  above  a  whisper. 
She  was  hurting  herself  with  the  jewels  that  glit- 
tered on  her  tightly-clasped  fingers  pressed 
against  her  heart. 

The  feeling  Deronda  endured  in  these  mo- 
ments he  afterward  called  horrible.  Words 
seemed  to  have  no  more  rescue  in  them  than  if 


\ 


REVELATIONS  95 


he  had  been  beholding  a  vessel  in  peril  of  wreck 
—  the  poor  ship  with  its  many-lived  anguish 
beaten  by  the  inescapable  storm.  How  could 
he  grasp  the  long-growing  process  of  this 
young  creature's  wretchedness?  —  how  arrest 
and  change  it  with  a  sentence?  He  was  afraid 
of  his  own  voice.  The  words  that  rushed  into 
his  mind  seemed  in  their  feebleness  nothing 
better  than  despair  made  audible,  or  than  that 
insensibility  to  another's  hardship  which  applies 
precept  to  soothe  pain.  He  felt  himself  holding 
a  crowd  of  words  imprisoned  within  his  hps,  as 
if  the  letting  them  escape  would  be  a  violation  of 
awe  before  the  mysteries  of  our  human  lot.  The 
thought  that  urged  itself  foremost  was  —  "  Con- 
fess everything  to  your  husband;  leave  nothing 
concealed:  "  —  the  words  carried  in  his  mind  a 
vision  of  reasons  which  would  have  needed  much 
fuller  expression  for  Gwendolen  to  apprehend 
them,  but  before  he  had  begun  to  utter  those 
brief  sentences,  the  door  opened  and  the  husband 
entered. 

Grandcourt  had  deliberately  gone  out  and 
turned  back  to  satisfy  a  suspicion.  What  he  saw 
was  Gwendolen's  face  of  anguish  framed  black 
like  a  nun's  and  Deronda  standing  three  yards 
from  her  with  a  look  of  sorrow  such  as  he  might 
have  bent  on  the  last  struggle  of  life  in  a  beloved 
object.  Without  any  show  of  surprise,  Grand- 
court  nodded  to  Deronda,  gave  a  second  look 
at  Gwendolen,  passed  on,  and  seated  himself 
easily  at  a  little  distance,  crossing  his  legs, 
taking  out  his  handkerchief  and  trifling  with  it 
elegantly. 

Gwendolen  had  shrunk  and  changed  her  atti- 


96  DANIEL  DERONDA 


tude  on  seeing  him,  but  she  did  not  turn  or  move 
from  her  place.  It  was  not  a  moment  in  which 
she  could  feign  anything,  or  manifest  any  strong- 
re  vulsion  of  feeling:  the  passionate  movement  of 
her  last  speech  was  still  too  strong  within  her. 
What  she  felt  besides  was  a  dull  despairing  sense 
that  her  interview  with  Deronda  was  at  an  end: 
a  curtain  had  fallen.  But  he,  naturally,  was 
urged  into  self-possession  and  effort  by  suscep- 
tibility to  what  might  follow  for  her  from  being 
seen  by  her  husband  in  this  betrayal  of  agitation ; 
and  feeling  that  any  pretence  of  ease  in  pro- 
longing his  visit  would  only  exaggerate  Grand- 
court's  possible  conjectures  of  duplicity,  he 
merely  said: 

"  I  will  not  stay  longer  now.  Good-by." 

He  put  out  his  hand,  and  she  let  him  press 
her  poor  little  chill  fingers;  but  she  said  no 
good-by. 

When  he  had  left  the  room,  Gwendolen  threw 
herself  into  a  seat,  with  an  expectation  as  dull  as 
her  despair  —  the  expectation  that  she  was  go- 
ing to  be  punished.  But  Grandcourt  took  no 
notice ;  he  was  satisfied  to  have  let  her  know  that 
she  had  not  deceived  him,  and  to  keep  a  silence 
which  was  formidable  with  omniscience.  He 
went  out  that  evening,  and  her  plea  of  feeling 
ill  was  accepted  without  even  a  sneer. 

The  next  morning  at  breakfast  he  said,  "  I 
am  going  yachting  to  the  Mediterranean." 

"When?"  said  Gwendolen,  with  a  leap  of 
heart  which  had  hope  in  it. 

"  The  day  after  to-morrow.  The  yacht  is  at 
Marseilles.  Lush  is  gone  to  get  everything 
ready." 


REVELATIONS  97 

"  Shall  I  have  mamma  to  stay  with  me,  then?  " 
said  Gwendolen,  the  new  sudden  possibility  of 
peace  and  affection  filling  her  mind  like  a  burst 
of  morning  light. 

"  No;  you  will  go  with  me." 


VOL.  xrv'  —  7 


CHAPTER  IX 


Ever  in  his  soul 
That  larger  justice  which  makes  gratitude 
Triumphed  above  resentment.    'T  is  the  mark 
Of  regal  natures,  with  the  wider  life, 
And  fuller  capability  of  joy :  — 
Not  wits  exultant  in  the  strongest  lens 
To  show  you  goodness  vanished  into  pulp 
Never  worth  "thank  you"  — they're  the  devil's  friars, 
Vowed  to  be  poor  as  he  in  love  and  trust. 
Yet  must  go  begging  of  a  world  that  keeps 
Some  human  property. 

DERONDA,  in  parting  from  Gwendolen, 
had  abstained  from  saying,  "  I  shall  not 
see  you  again  for  a  long  while;  I  am 
going  away,"  lest  Grandcourt  should  understand 
him  to  imply  that  the  fact  was  of  importance  to 
her. 

He  was  actually  going  away  under  circum- 
stances so  momentous  to  himself  that  when  he 
set  out  to  fulfil  his  promise  of  calling  on  her, 
he  was  already  under  the  shadow  of  a  solemn 
emotion  which  revived  the  deepest  experience  of 
his  life. 

Sir  Hugo  had  sent  for  him  to  his  chambers 
with  the  note  —  "  Come  immediately.  Some- 
thing has  happened:  "  a  preparation  that 
caused  him  some  relief  when,  on  entering  the 
baronet's  study,  he  was  received  with  grave  af- 
fection instead  of  the  distress  which  he  had 
apprehended. 

"  It  is  nothing  to  grieve  you,  sir?  "  said  De- 
ronda,  in  a  tone  rather  of  restored  confidence 
than  question,  as  he  took  the  hand  held  out  to 


REVELATIONS  99 


him.  There  was  an  unusual  meaning  in  Sir 
Hugo's  look,  and  a  subdued  emotion  in  his  voice, 
as  he  said: 

"  No,  Dan,  no.  Sit  down.  I  have  something 
to  say." 

Deronda  obeyed,  not  without  presentiment. 
It  was  extremely  rare  for  Sir  Hugo  to  show  so 
much  serious  feeling. 

"  Not  to  grieve  me,  my  boy,  no.  At  least,  if 
there  is  nothing  in  it  that  will  grieve  you  too 
much.  But  I  hardly  expected  that  this  —  just 
this  —  would  ever  happen.  There  have  been 
reasons  why  I  have  never  prepared  you  for  it. 
There  have  been  reasons  why  I  have  never  told 
you  anything  about  your  parentage.  But  I  have 
striven  in  every  way  not  to  make  that  an  injury 
to  you." 

Sir  Hugo  paused,  but  Deronda  could  not 
speak.  He  could  not  say,  "  I  have  never  felt  it 
an  injury."  Even  if  that  had  been  true,  he  could 
not  have  trusted  his  voice  to  say  anything.  Far 
more  than  any  one  but  himself  could  know  of 
was  hanging  on  this  moment  when  the  secrecy 
was  to  be  broken.  Sir  Hugo  had  never  seen  the 
grand  face  he  delighted  in  so  pale  —  the  lips 
pressed  together  with  such  a  look  of  pain.  He 
went  on  with  a  more  anxious  tenderness,  as  if 
he  had  a  new  fear  of  wounding. 

"  I  have  acted  in  obedience  to  your  mother's 
wishes.  The  secrecy  was  her  wish.  But  now  she 
desires  to  remove  it.  She  desires  to  see  you.  I 
will  put  this  letter  into  your  hands,  which  you 
can  look  at  by  and  by.  It  will  merely  tell  you 
what  she  wishes  you  to  do,  and  where  you  will 
find  her." 


100  DANIEL  DERONDA 


Sir  Hugo  held  out  a  letter  written  on  foreign 
paper,  which  Deronda  thrust  into  his  breast- 
pocket, with  a  sense  of  relief  that  he  was  not 
called  on  to  read  anything  immediately.  The 
emotion  on  Daniel's  face  had  gained  on  the  bar- 
onet, and  was  visibly  shaking  his  composure. 
Sir  Hugo  found  it  difficult  to  say  more.  And 
Deronda's  whole  soul  was  possessed  by  a  ques- 
tion which  was  the  hardest  in  the  world  to  utter. 
Yet  he  could  not  bear  to  delay  it.  This  was  a 
sacramental  moment.  If  he  let  it  pass,  he  could 
not  recover  the  influences  under  which  it  was  pos- 
sible to  utter  the  words  and  meet  the  answer. 
For  some  moments  his  eyes  were  cast  down,  and 
it  seemed  to  both  as  if  thoughts  were  in  the  air 
between  them.  But  at  last  Deronda  looked  at 
Sir  Hugo,  and  said,  with  a  tremulous  reverence 
in  his  voice  —  dreading  to  convey  indirectly  the 
reproach  that  affection  had  for  years  been 
stifling : 

"  Is  my  father  also  living? " 

The  answer  came  immediately  in  a  low,  em- 
phatic tone : 

"No." 

In  the  mingled  emotions  which  followed  that  - 
answer  it  was  impossible  to  distinguish  joy  from 
pain. 

Some  new  light  had  fallen  on  the  past  for  Sir 
Hugo  too  in  this  interview.  After  a  silence  in 
which  Deronda  felt  like  one  whose  creed  is  gone 
before  he  has  religiously  embraced  another,  the 
baronet  said,  in  a  tone  of  confession : 

"  Perhaps  I  was  wrong,  Dan,  to  undertake 
what  I  did.  And  perhaps  I  liked  it  a  little  too 
well  —  having  you  all  to  myself.    But  if  you 


REVELATIOl^S  101 


have  had  any  pain  which  I  might  have  helped, 
I  ask  you  to  forgive  me." 

"  The  forgiveness  has  long  been  there,"  said 
Deronda.  "  The  chief  pain  has  always  been  on 
account  of  some  one  else  —  whom  I  never  knew 
—  whom  I  am  now  to  know.  It  has  not  hin- 
dered me  from  feeling  an  affection  for  you  which 
has  made  a  large  part  of  all  the  life  I  remember." 

It  seemed  one  impulse  that  made  the  two  men 
clasp  each  other's  hand  for  a  moment. 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON 


CHAPTER  I 

"If  some  mortal,  born  too  soon, 
Were  laid  away  in  some  great  trance  —  the  ages 
Coming  and  going  all  the  while  —  till  dawned 
His  true  time's  advent ;  and  could  then  record 
The  words  they  spoke  who  kept  watch  by  his  bed 
Then  I  might  tell  more  of  the  breath  so  light 
Upon  my  eyelids,  and  the  fingers  warm 
Among  my  hair.    Youth  is  confused ;  yet  never 
So  dull  was  I  but,  when  that  spirit  passed, 
I  turned  to  him,  scarce  consciously,  as  turns 
A  water-snake  when  fairies  cross  his  sleep." 

Browning:  Paracelsus. 

THIS  was  the  letter  which  Sir  Hugo  put 
into  Deronda's  hands: 

To  MY  Son,  Daniel  Deronda,  —  My  good  friend 
and  yours,  Sir  Hugo  Mallinger,  will  have  told  you  that 
I  wish  to  see  you.  My  health  is  shaken,  and  I  desire 
there  should  be  no  time  lost  before  I  deliver  to  you 
what  I  have  long  withheld.  Let  nothing  hinder  you 
from  being  at  the  Alhergo  delV  Italia  in  Genoa  by  the 
fourteenth  of  this  month.  Wait  for  me  there.  I  am 
uncertain  when  I  shall  be  able  to  make  the  journey 
from  Spezia,  where  I  shall  be  staying.  That  will  de- 
pend on  several  things.  Wait  for  me  —  the  Princess 
Halm-Eberstein.  Bring  with  you  the  diamond  ring 
that  Sir  Hugo  gave  you.  I  shall  like  to  see  it  again.  — 
Your  unknown  mother, 

Leonora  Halm-Eberstein. 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  103 


This  letter  with  its  colourless  wording  gave  De- 
ronda  no  clew  to  what  was  in  reserve  for  him; 
but  he  could  not  do  otherwise  than  accept  Sir 
Hugo's  reticence,  which  seemed  to  imply  some 
pledge  not  to  anticipate  the  mother's  disclosures ; 
and  the  discovery  that  his  life-long  conjectures 
had  been  mistaken  checked  further  surmise.  De- 
ronda  could  not  hinder  his  imagination  from 
taking  a  quick  flight  over  what  seemed  possibili- 
ties, but  he  refused  to  contemplate  any  one  of 
them  as  more  likely  than  another,  lest  he  should 
be  nursing  it  into  a  dominant  desire  or  repug- 
nance, instead  of  simply  preparing  himself  with 
resolve  to  meet  the  fact  bravely,  whatever  it 
might  turn  out  to  be. 

In  this  state  of  mind  he  could  not  have  com- 
municated to  any  one  the  reason  for  the  absence 
which  in  some  quarters  he  was  obliged  to  mention 
beforehand,  least  of  all  to  Mordecai,  whom  it 
would  affect  as  powerfully  as  it  did  himself,  only 
in  rather  a  different  way.  If  he  were  to  say,  "  I 
am  going  to  learn  the  truth  about  my  birth," 
Mordecai's  hope  would  gather  what  might  prove 
a  painful,  dangerous  excitement.  To  exclude 
suppositions,  he  spoke  of  his  journey  as  being 
undertaken  by  Sir  Hugo's  wish,  and  threw  as 
much  indifference  as  he  could  into  his  manner  of 
announcing  it,  saying  he  was  uncertain  of  its 
duration,  but  it  would  perhaps  be  very  short. 

"  I  will  ask  to  have  the  child  Jacob  to  stay  with 
me,"  said  Mordecai,  comforting  himself  in  this 
way,  after  the  first  mournful  glances. 

"  I  will  drive  round  and  ask  Mrs.  Cohen  to  let 
him  come,"  said  Mirah. 

"  The  grandmother  will  deny  you  nothing," 


104  DANIEL  DERONDA 


said  Deronda.  "  I 'm  glad  you  were  a  little 
wrong  as  well  as  I,"  he  added,  smiling  at 
JNlordecai.  "  You  thought  that  old  Mrs.  Cohen 
would  not  bear  to  see  Slirah." 

"  I  undervalued  her  heart,"  said  Mordecai. 
"  She  is  capable  of  rejoicing  that  another's  plant 
blooms,  though  her  own  be  withered." 

"  Oh,  they  are  dear  good  people;  I  feel  as  if 
we  all  belonged  to  each  other,"  said  Mirah,  with 
a  tinge  of  merriment  in  her  smile. 

"  What  should  you  have  felt  if  that  Ezra  had 
been  your  brother?  "  said  Deronda,  mischiev- 
ously —  a  little  provoked  that  she  had  taken 
kindly  at  once  to  people  who  had  caused  him  so 
much  prospective  annoyance  on  her  account. 

JMirah  looked  at  him  with  a  slight  surprise  for 
a  moment,  and  then  said:  "  He  is  not  a  bad  man 
—  I  think  he  would  never  forsake  any  one." 
But  when  she  had  uttered  the  words  she  blushed 
deeply,  and  glancing  timidly  at  Mordecai, 
turned  away  to  some  occupation.  Her  father 
was  in  her  mind,  and  this  was  a  subject  on  which 
she  and  her  brother  had  a  painful  mutual  con- 
sciousness. "  If  he  should  come  and  find  us!  " 
was  a  thought  which  to  Mirah  sometimes  made 
the  street  daylight  as  shadowy  as  a  haunted  for- 
est where  each  turn  screened  for  her  an  imagi- 
nary apparition. 

Deronda  felt  what  was  her  involuntary  allu- 
sion, and  understood  the  blush.  How  could  he 
be  slow  to  understand  feelings  which  now  seemed 
nearer  than  ever  to  his  own?  for  the  words  of  his 
mother's  letter  implied  that  his  filial  relation  was 
not  to  be  freed  from  painful  conditions;  indeed, 
singularly  enough  that  letter  which  had  brought 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  105 


his  mother  nearer  as  a  living  reality  had  thrown 
her  into  more  remoteness  for  his  affections.  The 
tender  yearning  after  a  being  whose  life  might 
have  been  the  worse  for  not  having  his  care  and 
love,  the  image  of  a  mother  who  had  not  had  all 
her  dues  whether  of  reverence  or  compassion, 
had  long  been  secretly  present  with  him  in  his 
observation  of  all  the  women  he  had  come  near. 
But  it  seemed  now  that  this  picturing  of  his 
mother  might  fit  the  facts  no  better  than  his  for- 
mer conceptions  about  Sir  Hugo.  He  wondered 
to  find  that  when  this  mother's  very  handwriting 
had  come  to  him  with  words  holding  her  actual 
feeling,  his  affections  had  suddenly  shrunk  into 
a  state  of  comparative  neutrality  toward  her, 
A  veiled  figure  with  enigmatic  speech  had  thrust 
away  that  image  which,  in  spite  of  uncertainty, 
his  clinging  thought  had  gradually  modelled  and 
made  the  possessor  of  his  tenderness  and  duteous 
longing.  When  he  set  off  to  Genoa,  the  inter- 
est really  uppermost  in  his  mind  had  hardly  so 
much  relation  to  his  mother  as  to  Mordecai  and 
Mirah. 

"  God  bless  you,  Dan!  "  Sir  Hugo  had  said, 
when  they  shook  hands.  "  Whatever  else 
changes  for  you,  it  can't  change  my  being  the 
oldest  friend  you  have  known,  and  the  one  who 
has  all  along  felt  the  most  for  you.  I  could  n't 
have  loved  you  better  if  you 'd  been  my  own  — 
only  I  should  have  been  better  pleased  with 
thinking  of  you  always  as  the  future  master  of 
the  Abbey  instead  of  my  fine  nephew ;  and  then 
you  would  have  seen  it  necessary  for  you  to  take 
a  political  line.  However  —  things  must  be  as 
they  may."    It  was  a  defensive  measure  of  the 


106         DANIEL  DERONDA 


baronet's  to  mingle  purposeless  remarks  with  the 
expression  of  serious  feeling. 

When  Deronda  arrived  at  the  Italia  in  Genoa, 
no  Princess  Halm-Eberstein  was  there;  but  on 
the  second  day  there  was  a  letter  for  him,  saying 
that  her  arrival  might  happen  within  a  week,  or 
might  be  deferred  a  fortnight  and  more :  she  was 
under  circumstances  which  made  it  impossible 
for  her  to  fix  her  journey  more  precisely,  and 
she  entreated  him  to  wait  as  patiently  as  he  could. 

With  this  indefinite  prospect  of  suspense  on 
matters  of  supreme  moment  to  him,  Deronda  set 
about  the  difficult  task  of  seeking  amusement  on 
philosophic  grounds,  as  a  means  of  quieting  ex- 
cited feeling  and  giving  patience  a  lift  over  a 
weary  road.  His  former  visit  to  the  superb  city 
had  been  only  cursory,  and  left  him  much  to 
learn  beyond  the  prescribed  round  of  sight- 
seeing, by  spending  the  cooler  hours  in  observant 
wandering  about  the  streets,  the  quay,  and  the 
environs ;  and  he  often  took  a  boat  that  he  might 
enjoy  the  magnificent  view  of  the  city  and  har- 
bour from  the  sea.  All  sights,  all  subjects,  even 
the  expected  meeting  with  his  mother,  found  a 
central  union  in  Mordecai  and  Mirah,  and  the 
ideas  immediately  associated  with  them;  and 
among  the  thoughts  that  most  filled  his  mind 
while  his  boat  was  pushing  about  within  view  of 
the  grand  harbour  was  that  of  the  multitudinous 
Spanish  Jews  centuries  ago  driven  destitute 
from  their  Spanish  homes,  suffered  to  land  from 
the  crowded  ships  only  for  brief  rest  on  this 
grand  quay  of  Genoa,  overspreading  it  with  a 
pall  of  famine  and  plague  —  dying  mothers  with 
dying  children  at  their  breasts  —  fathers  and 


THE  MOTHER  ANT)  THE  SON  107 


sons  agaze  at  each  other's  haggardness,  Uke 
groups  from  a  hundred  Hunger-towers  turned 
out  beneath  the  mid-day  sun.  Inevitably, 
dreamy  constructions  of  a  possible  ancestry  for 
himself  would  weave  themselves  with  historic 
memories  which  had  begun  to  have  a  new  interest 
for  him  on  his  discovery  of  Mirah,  and  now,  un- 
der the  influence  of  Mordecai,  had  become  irre- 
sistibly dominant.  He  would  have  sealed  his 
mind  against  such  constructions  if  it  had  been 
possible,  and  he  had  never  yet  fully  admitted  to 
himself  that  he  wished  the  facts  to  verify  Mor- 
decai's  conviction :  he  inwardly  repeated  that  he 
had  no  choice  in  the  matter,  and  that  wishing  was 
folly  —  nay,  on  the  question  of  parentage,  wish- 
ing seemed  part  of  that  meajmess  which  disowns 
kinship:  it  was  a  disowning  by  anticipation. 
What  he  had  to  do  was  simply  to  accept  the  fact ; 
and  he  had  really  no  strong  presumption  to  go 
upon,  now  that  he  was  assured  of  his  mistake 
about  Sir  Hugo.  There  had  been  a  resolved  con- 
cealment which  made  all  inference  untrust- 
worthy, and  the  very  name  he  bore  might  be  a 
false  one.  If  Mordecai  were  wrong  —  if  he,  the 
so-called  Daniel  Deronda,  were  held  by  ties  en- 
tirely aloof  from  any  such  course  as  his  friend's 
pathetic  hope  had  marked  out?  —  he  would  not 
say  "  I  wish  "  ;  but  he  could  not  help  feeling  on 
which  side  the  sacrifice  lay. 

Across  these  two  importunate  thoughts,  which 
he  resisted  as  much  as  one  can  resist  anything  in 
that  unstrung  condition  which  belongs  to  sus- 
pense, there  came  continually  an  anxiety  which 
he  made  no  effort  to  banish  —  dwelling  on  it 
rather  with  a  mournfulness,  which  often  seems 


108^        DANIEL  DERONDA 


to  us  the  best  atonement  we  can  make  to  one 
whose  need  we  have  been  unable  to  meet.  The 
anxiety  was  for  Gwendolen.  In  the  wonderful 
mixtures  of  our  nature  there  is  a  feeling  distinct 
from  that  exclusive  passionate  love  of  which 
some  men  and  women  (by  no  means  all)  are 
capable,  which  yet  is  not  the  same  with  friend- 
ship, nor  with  a  merely  benevolent  regard, 
whether  admiring  or  compassionate :  a  man,  say 

—  for  it  is  a  man  who  is  here  concerned  — 
hardly  represents  to  himself  this  shade  of  feeling 
toward  a  woman  more  nearly  than  in  the  words, 
"  I  should  have  loved  her,  if  —  "  :  the  "  if  " 
covering  some  prior  growth  in  the  inclinations, 
or  else  some  circumstances  which  have  made  an 
inward  prohibitory  law  as  a  stay  against  the  emo- 
tions ready  to  quiver  out  of  balance.  The  "  if  " 
in  Deronda's  case  carried  reasons  of  both  kinds ; 
yet  he  had  never  throughout  his  relations  with 
Gwendolen  been  free  from  the  nervous  con- 
sciousness that  there  was  something  to  guard 
against  not  only  on  her  account,  but  on  his  own 

—  some  precipitancy  in  the  manifestation  of  im- 
pulsive feeling  —  some  ruinous  inroad  of  what 
is  but  momentary  on  the  permanent  chosen  treas- 
ure of  the  heart  —  some  spoiling  of  her  trust, 
which  wrought  upon  him  now  as  if  it  had  been 
the  retreating  cry  of  a  creature  snatched  and 
carried  out  of  his  reach  by  swift  horsemen  or 
swifter  waves,  while  his  own  strength  was  only  a 
stronger  sense  of  weakness.  How  could  his  feel- 
ing for  Gwendolen  ever  be  exactly  like  his  feel- 
ing for  other  women,  even  when  there  was  one  by 
whose  side  he  desired  to  stand  apart  from  them? 
Strangely  her  figure  entered  into  the  pictures  of 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  109 


his  present  and  future;  strangely  (and  now  it 
seemed  sadly)  their  two  lots  had  come  in  con- 
tact, hers  narrowly  personal,  his  charged  with 
far-reaching  sensibilities,  perhaps  with  durable 
purposes,  which  were  hardly  more  present  to  her 
than  the  reasons  why  men  migrate  are  present  to 
the  birds  that  come  as  usual  for  the  crumbs  and 
find  them  no  more.  Not  that  Deronda  was  too 
ready  to  imagine  himself  of  supreme  importance 
to  a  woman ;  but  her  words  of  insistence  that  he 
"  must  remain  near  her  —  must  not  forsake  her  " 
—  continually  recurred  to  him  with  the  clearness 
and  importunity  of  imagined  sounds,  such  as 
Dante  has  said  pierce  us  like  arrows  whose 
points  carry  the  sharpness  of  pity: 

"Lamenti  saettaron  me  diversi 
Che  di  pieta  ferrati  avean  gli  strali." 

Day  after  day  passed,  and  the  very  air  of  Italy 
seemed  to  carry  the  consciousness  that  war  had 
been  declared  against  Austria,  and  every  day 
was  a  hurrying  march  of  crowded  Time  toward 
the  world-changing  battle  of  Sadowa.  Mean- 
while, in  Genoa,  the  noons  were  getting  hotter, 
the  converging  outer  roads  getting  deeper  with 
white  dust,  the  oleanders  in  the  tubs  along  the 
wayside  gardens  looking  more  and  more  like 
fatigued  holiday-makers,  and  the  sweet  evening 
changing  her  office  —  scattering  abroad  those 
whom  the  mid-day  had  sent  under  shelter, 
and  sowing  all  paths  with  happy  social  sounds, 
little  tinklings  of  mule-bells  and  whirrings  of 
thrummed  strings,  light  footsteps  and  voices,  if 
not  leisurely,  then  with  the  hurry  of  pleasure  in 
them ;  while  the  encircling  heights,  crowned  with 


110         DANIEL  DERONDA 


forts,  skirted  with  fine  dwellings  and  gardens, 
seemed  also  to  come  forth  and  gaze  in  fulness  of 
beauty  after  their  long  siesta,  till  all  strong  colour 
melted  in  the  stream  of  moonlight  which  made 
the  streets  a  new  spectacle  with  shadows,  both 
still  and  moving,  on  cathedral  steps  and  against 
the  f a9ades  of  massive  palaces ;  and  then  slowly 
with  the  descending  moon  all  sank  in  deep  night 
and  silence,  and  nothing  shone  but  the  port  lights 
of  the  great  Lanterna  in  the  blackness  below,  and 
the  glimmering  stars  in  the  blackness  above. 
Deronda,  in  his  suspense,  watched  this  revolving 
of  the  days  as  he  might  have  watched  a  wonder- 
ful clock  where  the  striking  of  the  hours  was 
made  solemn  with  antique  figures  advancing  and 
retreating  in  monitory  procession,  while  he  still 
kept  his  ear  open  for  another  kind  of  signal 
which  would  have  its  solemnity  too.  He  was  be- 
ginning to  sicken  of  occupation,  and  found  him- 
self contemplating  all  activity  with  the  aloofness 
of  a  prisoner  awaiting  ransom.  In  his  letters  to 
Mordecai  and  Hans,  he  had  avoided  writing 
about  himself,  but  he  was  really  getting  into  that 
state  of  mind  to  which  all  subjects  become  per- 
sonal ;  and  the  few  books  he  had  brought  to  make 
him  a  refuge  in  study  were  becoming  unreadable, 
because  the  point  of  view  that  life  would  make 
for  him  was  in  that  agitating  moment  of  uncer- 
tainty which  is  close  upon  decision. 

Many  nights  were  watched  through  by  him  in 
gazing  from  the  open  window  of  his  room  on  the 
double,  faintly  pierced  darkness  of  the  sea  and 
the  heavens;  often  in  struggling  under  the  op- 
pressive scepticism  which  represented  his  par- 
ticular lot,  with  all  the  importance  he  was 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  111 


allowing'  Mordecai  to  give  it,  as  of  no  more  last- 
ing effect  than  a  dream  —  a  set  of  changes  which 
made  passion  to  him,  but  beyond  his  conscious- 
ness were  no  more  than  an  imperceptible  dif- 
ference of  mass  or  shadow;  sometimes  with  a 
reaction  of  emotive  force  which  gave  even  to 
sustained  disappointment,  even  to  the  fulfilled 
demand  of  sacrifice,  the  nature  of  a  satisfied 
energy,  and  spread  over  his  young  future, 
whatever  it  might  be,  the  attraction  of  devoted 
service ;  sometimes  with  a  sweet  irresistible  hope- 
fulness that  the  very  best  of  human  possibilities 
might  befall  him  —  the  blending  of  a  complete 
personal  love  in  one  current  with  a  larger  duty ; 
and  sometimes  again  in  a  mood  of  rebellion 
(what  human  creature  escapes  it?)  against 
things  in  general  because  they  are  thus  and  not 
otherwise,  a  mood  in  which  Gwendolen  and  her 
equivocal  fate  moved  as  busy  images  of  what 
was  amiss  in  the  world  along  with  the  conceal- 
ments which  he  had  felt  as  a  hardship  in  his  own 
life,  and  which  were  acting  in  him  now  under  the 
form  of  an  afflicting  doubtfulness  about  the 
mother  who  had  announced  herself  coldly  and 
still  kept  away. 

But  at  last  she  was  come.  One  morning  in  his 
third  week  of  waiting  there  was  a  new  kind  of 
knock  at  the  door.  A  servant  in  chasseur's  livery 
entered  and  delivered  in  French  the  verbal  mes- 
sage that  the  Princess  Halm-Eberstein  had  ar- 
rived, that  she  was  going  to  rest  during  the  day, 
but  would  be  obliged  if  Monsieur  would  dine 
early,  so  as  to  be  at  liberty  at  seven,  when  she 
would  be  able  to  receive  him. 


CHAPTER  II 


She  held  the  spindle  as  she  sat, 
Erinna  with  the  thick-coiled  mat 
Of  raven  hair  and  deepest  agate  eyes. 
Gazing  with  a  sad  surprise 
At  surging  visions  of  her  destiny  — 
To  spin  the  byssus  drearily 
In  insect-labor,  while  the  throng 
Of  gods  and  men  wrought  deeds  that  poets  wrought  in  song. 

WHEN  Deronda  presented  himself  at  the 
door  of  his  mother's  apartment  in  the 
Italia^  he  felt  some  revival  of  his  boy- 
hood with  its  premature  agitations.  The  two 
servants  in  the  antechamber  looked  at  him  mark- 
edly, a  little  surprised  that  the  doctor  their  lady 
had  come  to  consult  was  this  striking  young  gen- 
tleman whose  appearance  gave  even  the  severe 
lines  of  an  evening  dress  the  credit  of  adornment. 
But  Deronda  could  notice  nothing  until,  the 
second  door  being  opened,  he  found  himself  in 
the  presence  of  a  figure  which  at  the  other  end  of 
the  large  room  stood  awaiting  his  approach. 

She  was  covered,  except  as  to  her  face  and  part 
of  her  arms,  with  black  lace  hanging  loosely 
from  the  summit  of  her  whitening  hair  to  the 
long  train  stretching  from  her  tall  figure.  Her 
arms,  naked  from  the  elbow,  except  for  some 
rich  bracelets,  were  folded  before  her,  and  the 
fine  poise  of  her  head  made  it  look  handsomer 
than  it  really  was.  But  Deronda  felt  no  interval 
of  observation  before  he  was  close  in  front  of  her, 
holding  the  hand  she  had  put  out  and  then  rais- 
ing it  to  his  lips.    She  still  kept  her  hand  in  his 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  113 


and  looked  at  him  examiningly ;  while  his  chief 
consciousness  was  that  her  eyes  were  piercing 
and  her  face  so  mobile  that  the  next  moment  she 
might  look  like  a  different  person.  For  even 
while  she  was  examining  him  there  was  a  play  of 
the  brow  and  nostril  which  made  a  tacit  lan- 
guage. Deronda  dared  no  movement,  not  able 
to  conceive  what  sort  of  manifestation  her  feeling 
demanded;  but  he  felt  himself  changing  colour 
like  a  girl,  and  yet  wondering  at  his  own  lack  of 
emotion:  he  had  lived  through  so  many  ideal 
meetings  with  his  mother,  and  they  had  seemed 
more  real  than  this!  He  could  not  even  conjec- 
ture in  what  language  she  would  speak  to  him. 
He  imagined  it  would  not  be  English.  Sud- 
denly, she  let  fall  his  hand,  and  placed  both  hers 
on  his  shoulders,  while  her  face  gave  out  a  flash 
of  admiration  in  which  every  worn  line  disap- 
peared and  seemed  to  leave  a  restored  youth. 

"  You  are  a  beautiful  creature!  "  she  said  in  a 
low  melodious  voice,  with  syllables  which  had 
what  might  be  called  a  foreign  but  agreeable  out- 
line. "  I  knew  you  would  be."  Then  she  kissed 
him  on  each  cheek,  and  he  returned  her  kisses. 
But  it  was  something  like  a  greeting  between 
royalties. 

She  paused  a  moment,  while  the  lines  were 
coming  back  into  her  face,  and  then  said  in  a 
colder  tone :  "I  am  your  mother.  But  you  can 
have  no  love  for  me." 

"  I  have  thought  of  you  more  than  of  any  other 
being  in  the  world,"  said  Deronda,  his  voice 
trembling  nervously. 

"  I  am  not  like  what  you  thought  I  was,"  said 
the  mother,  decisively,  withdrawing  her  hands 

VOL.  XIV  —  8 


114         DANIEL  DERONDA 


from  his  shoulders  and  folding  her  arms  before, 
looking  at  him  as  if  she  invited  him  to  observe 
her.  He  had  often  pictured  her  face  in  his  imagi- 
nation as  one  which  had  a  likeness  to  his  own :  he 
saw  some  of  the  likeness  now,  but  amidst  more 
striking  differences.  She  was  a  remarkable- 
looking  being.  What  was  it  that  gave  her  son  a 
painful  sense  of  aloofness  ?  —  Her  worn  beauty 
had  a  strangeness  in  it  as  if  she  were  not  quite  a 
human  mother,  but  a  Melusina,  who  had  ties  with 
some  world  which  is  independent  of  ours. 

"  I  used  to  think  that  you  might  be  suffering," 
said  Deronda,  anxious  above  all  not  to  wound 
her.  "  I  used  to  wish  that  I  could  be  a  comfort 
to  you." 

"  I  am  suffering.  But  with  a  suffering  that 
you  can't  comfort,"  said  the  Princess,  in  a  harder 
voice  than  before,  moving  to  a  sofa  where  cush- 
ions had  been  carefully  arranged  for  her.  "Sit 
down."  She  pointed  to  a  seat  near  her;  and 
then  discerning  some  distress  in  Deronda's  face, 
she  added,  more  gently:  "  I  am  not  suffering  at 
this  moment.  I  am  at  ease  now.  I  am  able  to 
talk." 

Deronda  seated  himself  and  waited  for  her  to 
speak  again.  It  seemed  as  if  he  were  in  the 
presence  of  a  mysterious  Fate  rather  than  of  the 
longed-for  mother.  He  was  beginning  to  watch 
her  with  wonder,  from  the  spiritual  distance  to 
which  she  had  thrown  him. 

"  No,"  she  began;  "  I  did  not  send  for  you  to 
comfort  me.  I  could  not  know  beforehand  —  I 
don't  know  now  —  what  you  will  feel  toward  me. 
I  have  not  the  foolish  notion  that  you  can  love 
me  merely  because  I  am  your  mother,  when  you 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  115 


have  never  seen  or  heard  of  me  all  your  life.  But 
I  thought  I  chose  something  better  for  you  than 
being  with  me.  I  did  not  think  that  I  deprived 
you  of  anything  worth  having." 

"  You  cannot  wish  me  to  beHeve  that  your 
affection  would  not  have  been  worth  having," 
said  Deronda,  finding  that  she  paused  as  if  she 
expected  him  to  make  some  answer. 

"  I  don't  mean  to  speak  ill  of  myself,"  said  the 
Princess,  with  proud  impetuosity,  "  but  I  had  not 
much  affection  to  give  you.  I  did  not  want  af- 
fection. I  had  been  stifled  with  it.  I  wanted  to 
live  out  the  life  that  was  in  me,  and  not  to  be 
hampered  with  other  lives.  You  wonder  what  I 
was.  I  was  no  princess  then."  She  rose  with  a 
sudden  movement,  and  stood  as  she  had  done  be- 
fore. Deronda  immediately  rose  too:  he  felt 
breathless. 

"  No  princess  in  this  tame  life  that  I  live  in 
now.  I  was  a  great  singer,  and  I  acted  as  well  as 
I  sang.  All  the  rest  were  poor  beside  me.  Men 
followed  me  from  one  country  to  another.  I  was 
living  a  myriad  lives  in  one.  I  did  not  want  a 
child." 

There  was  a  passionate  self-defence  in  her 
tone.  She  had  cast  all  precedent  out  of  her  mind. 
Precedent  had  no  excuse  for  her,  and  she  could 
only  seek  a  justification  in  the  intensest  words 
she  could  find  for  her  experience.  She  seemed  to 
fling  out  the  last  words  against  some  possible  re- 
proach in  the  mind  of  her  son,  who  had  to  stand 
and  hear  them  —  clutching  his  coat-collar  as  if 
he  were  keeping  himself  above  water  by  it,  and 
feeling  his  blood  in  the  sort  of  commotion  that 
might  have  been  excited  if  he  had  seen  her  going 


116  DANIEL  DERONDA 


through  some  strange  rite  of  a  religion  which 
gave  a  sacredness  to  crime.  What  else  had  she 
to  tell  him?  She  went  on  with  the  same  intensity 
and  a  sort  of  pale  illumination  in  her  face. 

"  I  did  not  want  to  marry.  I  was  forced  into 
marrying  your  father  —  forced,  I  mean,  by  my 
father's  wishes  and  commands;  and  besides,  it 
was  my  best  way  of  getting  some  freedom.  I 
could  rule  my  husband^  but  not  my  father.  I 
had  a  right  to  be  free.  I  had  a  right  to  seek  my 
freedom  from  a  bondage  that  I  hated." 

She  seated  herself  again,  while  there  was  that 
subtle  movement  in  her  eyes  and  closed  lips 
which  is  like  the  suppressed  continuation  of 
speech.  Deronda  continued  standing,  and  after 
a  moment  or  two  she  looked  up  at  him  with  a  less 
defiant  pleading  as  she  said : 

"And  the  bondage  I  hated  for  myself  I  wanted 
to  keep  you  from.  What  better  could  the  most 
loving  mother  have  done?  I  relieved  you  from 
the  bondage  of  having  been  born  a  Jew." 

"  Then  I  am  a  Jew?  "  Deronda  burst  out  with 
a  deep -voiced  energy  that  made  his  mother 
shrink  a  little  backward  against  her  cushions. 
"  My  father  was  a  Jew,  and  you  are  a  Jewess?  " 

"  Yes,  your  father  was  my  cousin,"  said  the 
mother,  watching  him  with  a  change  in  her  look, 
as  if  she  saw  something  that  she  might  have  to  be 
afraid  of. 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,"  said  Deronda,  impetuously, 
in  the  veiled  voice  of  passion.  He  could  not  have 
imagined  beforehand  how  he  would  come  to  say 
that  which  he  had  never  hitherto  admitted.  He 
could  not  have  dreamed  that  it  would  be  in  im- 
pulsive opposition  to  his  mother.  He  was  shaken 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  117 


by  a  mixed  anger  which  no  reflection  could  come 
soon  enough  to  check,  against  this  mother  who  it 
seemed  had  borne  him  unwilKngly,  had  wiUingly 
made  herself  a  stranger  to  him,  and  —  perhaps 
- —  was  now  making  herself  known  unwillingly. 
This  last  suspicion  seemed  to  flash  some  expla- 
nation over  her  speech. 

But  the  mother  was  equally  shaken  by  an 
anger  differently  mixed,  and  her  frame  was  less 
equal  to  any  repression.  The  shaking  with  her 
was  visibly  physical,  and  her  eyes  looked  the 
larger  for  her  pallid  excitement  as  she  said 
violently : 

"  Why  do  you  say  you  are  glad?  You  are  an 
English  gentleman.   I  secured  you  that." 

"  You  did  not  know  what  you  secured  me. 
How  could  you  choose  my  birthright  for  me?  " 
said  Deronda,  throwing  himself  sideways  into 
his  chair  again,  almost  unconsciously,  and  lean- 
ing his  arm  over  the  back  while  he  looked  away 
from  his  mother. 

He  was  fired  with  an  intolerance  that  seemed 
foreign  to  him.  But  he  was  now  trying  hard  to 
master  himself  and  keep  silence.  A  horror  had 
swept  in  upon  his  anger  lest  he  should  say  some- 
thing too  hard  in  this  moment  which  made  an 
epoch  never  to  be  recalled.  There  was  a  pause 
before  his  mother  spoke  again,  and  when  she 
spoke  her  voice  had  become  more  firmly  resistant 
in  its  finely  varied  tones : 

"  I  chose  for  you  what  I  would  have  chosen  for 
myself.  How  could  I  know  that  you  would  have 
the  spirit  of  my  father  in  you?  How  could  I 
know  that  you  would  love  what  I  hated  ?  —  if 
you  really  love  to  be  a  Jew."  The  last  words  had 


118  DANIEL  DERONDA 


such  bitterness  in  them  that  any  one  overhearing 
might  have  supposed  some  hatred  had  arisen  be- 
tween the  mother  and  son. 

But  Deronda  had  recovered  his  fuller  self. 
He  was  recalling  his  sensibilities  to  what  life  had 
been  and  actually  was  for  her  whose  best  years 
were  gone,  and  who  with  the  signs  of  suffering 
in  her  frame  was  now  exerting  herself  to  tell  him 
of  a  past  which  was  not  his  alone,  but  also  hers. 
His  habitual  shame  at  the  acceptance  of  events 
as  if  they  were  his  only,  helped  him  even  here. 
As  he  looked  at  his  mother  silently  after  her  last 
words,  his  face  regained  some  of  its  penetrative 
calm;  yet  it  seemed  to  have  a  strangely  agitat- 
ing influence  over  her:  her  eyes  were  fixed  on 
him  with  a  sort  of  fascination,  but  not  with  any 
repose  of  maternal  delight. 

"  Forgive  me  if  I  speak  hastily,"  he  said,  with 
diffident  gravity.  "  Why  have  you  resolved  now 
on  disclosing  to  me  what  you  took  care  to  have 
me  brought  up  in  ignorance  of?  Why  —  since 
you  seem  angry  that  I  should  be  glad?  " 

"  Oh — the  reasons  of  our  actions!  "  said  the 
Princess,  with  a  ring  of  something  like  sarcas- 
tic scorn.  "  When  you  are  as  old  as  I  am,  it  will 
not  seem  so  simple  a  question  —  '  Why  did  you 
do  this  ? '  People  talk  of  their  motives  in  a  cut 
and  dried  way.  Every  woman  is  supposed  to 
have  the  same  set  of  motives,  or  else  to  be  a  mon- 
ster. I  am  not  a  monster,  but  I  have  not  felt  ex- 
actly what  other  women  feel  —  or  say  they  feel, 
for  fear  of  being  thought  unlike  others.  When 
you  reproach  me  in  your  heart  for  sending  you 
away  from  me,  you  mean  that  I  ought  to  say  I 
felt  about  you  as  other  women  say  they  feel  about 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  119 


their  children.  I  did  not  feel  that.  I  was  glad  to 
be  freed  from  you.  But  I  did  well  for  you,  and 
I  gave  you  your  father's  fortune.  Do  I  seem 
now  to  be  revoking  everything  ?  —  Well,  there 
are  reasons.  I  feel  many  things  that  I  can't  un- 
derstand. A  fatal  illness  has  been  growing  in 
me  for  a  year.  I  shall  very  likely  not  live  another 
year.  I  will  not  deny  anything  I  have  done.  I 
will  not  pretend  to  love  where  I  have  no  love. 
But  shadows  are  rising  round  me.  Sickness 
makes  them.  If  I  have  wronged  the  dead  —  I 
have  but  little  time  to  do  what  I  left  undone." 

The  varied  transitions  of  tone  with  which  this 
speech  was  delivered  were  as  perfect  as  the  most 
accomplished  actress  could  have  made  them. 
The  speech  was  in  fact  a  piece  of  what  may  be 
called  sincere  acting:  this  woman's  nature  was 
one  in  which  all  feeling  —  and  all  the  more  when 
it  was  tragic  as  well  as  real  —  immediately  be- 
came matter  of  conscious  representation :  experi- 
ence immediately  passed  into  drama,  and  she 
acted  her  own  emotions.  In  a  minor  degree  this 
is  nothing  uncommon,  but  in  the  Princess  the 
acting  had  a  rare  perfection  of  physiognomy, 
voice,'  and  gesture.  It  would  not  be  true  to  say 
that  she  felt  less  because  of  this  double  conscious- 
ness :  she  felt  —  that  is,  her  mind  went  through  — 
all  the  more,  but  with  a  difference :  each  nucleus 
of  pain  or  pleasure  had  a  deep  atmosphere  of  the 
excitement  or  spiritual  intoxication  which  at  once 
exalts  and  deadens.  But  Deronda  made  no  re- 
flection of  this  kind.  All  his  thoughts  hung  on 
the  purport  of  what  his  mother  was  saying ;  her 
tones  and  her  wonderful  face  entered  into  his 
agitation  without  being  noted.   What  he  longed 


120  DANIEL  DERONDA 


for  with  an  awed  desire  was  to  know  as  much 
as  she  would  tell  him  of  the  strange  mental  con- 
flict under  which  it  seemed  that  he  had  been 
brought  into  the  world :  what  his  compassionate 
nature  made  the  controlhng  idea  within  him  were 
the  suffering  and  the  confession  that  breathed 
through  her  later  words,  and  these  forbade  any 
further  question,  when  she  paused  and  remained 
silent,  with  her  brow  knit,  her  head  turned  a  little 
away  from  him,  and  her  large  eyes  fixed  as  if  on 
something  incorporeal.  He  must  wait  for  her  to 
speak  again.  She  did  so  with  strange  abrupt- 
ness, turning  her  eyes  upon  him  suddenly,  and 
saying  more  quickly : 

"Sir  Hugo  has  written  much  about  you.  He 
tells  me  you  have  a  wonderful  mind  —  you  com- 
prehend everything  —  you  are  wiser  than  he  is 
with  all  his  sixty  years.  You  say  you  are  glad 
to  know  that  you  were  born  a  Jew.  I  am  not 
going  to  tell  you  that  I  have  changed  my  mind 
about  that.  Your  feelings  are  against  mine. 
You  don't  thank  me  for  what  I  did.  Shall 
you  comprehend  your  mother  —  or  only  blame 
her?" 

"  There  is  not  a  fibre  within  me  but  makes  me 
wish  to  comprehend  her,"  said  Deronda,  meeting 
her  sharp  gaze  solemnly.  "  It  is  a  bitter  reversal 
of  my  longing  to  think  of  blaming  her.  What 
I  have  been  most  trying  to  do  for  fifteen  years 
is  to  have  some  understanding  of  those  who  differ 
from  myself." 

"  Then  you  have  become  unlike  your  grand- 
father in  that,"  said  the  mother,  "  though  you 
are  a  young  copy  of  him  in  your  face.  He  never 
comprehended  me,  or  if  he  did,  he  only  thought 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  121 


of  fettering  me  into  obedience.  I  was  to  be 
what  he  called  '  the  Jewish  woman '  under  pain 
of  his  curse.  I  was  to  feel  everything  I  did  not 
feel,  and  believe  everything  I  did  not  believe.  I 
was  to  feel  awe  for  the  bit  of  parchment  in  the 
mezuza  over  the  door ;  to  dread  lest  a  bit  of  but- 
ter should  touch  a  bit  of  meat ;  to  think  it  beauti- 
ful that  men  should  bind  the  tephillin  on  them, 
and  women  not,  —  to  adore  the  wisdom  of  such 
laws,  however  silly  they  might  seem  to  me.  I 
was  to  love  the  long  prayers  in  the  ugly  syna- 
gogue, and  the  howling,  and  the  gabbling,  and 
the  dreadful  fasts,  and  the  tiresome  feasts,  and 
my  father's  endless  discoursing  about  Our* 
People,  which  was  a  thunder  without  meaning  in 
my  ears.  I  was  to  care  forever  about  what  Israel 
had  been ;  and  I  did  not  care  at  all.  I  cared  for 
the  wide  world,  and  all  that  I  could  represent  in 
it.  I  hated  living  under  the  shadow  of  my 
father's  strictness.  Teaching,  teaching  for  ever- 
lasting —  '  this  you  must  be,'  '  that  you  must  not 
be'  —  pressed  on  me  like  a  frame  that  got  tighter 
and  tighter  as  I  grew.  I  wanted  to  live  a  large 
life,  with  freedom  to  do  what  every  one  else  did, 
and  be  carried  along  in  a  great  current,  not 
obliged  to  care.  Ah!  "  —  here  her  tone  changed 
to  one  of  more  bitter  incisiveness  —  "  you  are 
glad  to  have  been  born  a  Jew.  You  say  so. 
That  is  because  you  have  not  been  brought  up  as 
a  Jew.  That  separateness  seems  sweet  to  you 
because  I  saved  you  from  it." 

"  When  you  resolvied  on  that,  you  meant  that 
I  should  never  know  my  origin?  "  said  Deronda, 
impulsively.  "  You  have  at  least  changed  in 
your  feeling  on  that  point." 


122  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  Yes,  that  was  what  I  meant.  That  is  what  I 
persevered  in.  And  it  is  not  true  to  say  that  I 
have  changed.  Things  have  changed  in  spite  of 
me.  I  am  still  the  same  Leonora "  —  she 
pointed  with  her  forefinger  to  her  breast  — 
"  here  within  me  is  the  same  desire,  the  same  will, 
the  same  choice,  but "  —  she  spread  out  her 
hands,  palm  upward,  on  each  side  of  her,  as  she 
paused  with  a  bitter  compression  of  her  lip,  then 
let  her  voice  fall  into  muffled,  rapid  utterance  — 
"  events  come  upon  us  like  evil  enchantments : 
and  thoughts,  feelings,  apparitions  in  the  dark- 
ness are  events  —  are  they  not?  I  don't  consent. 
-  We  only  consent  to  what  we  love.  I  obey  some- 
thing tyrannic  "  —  she  spread  out  her  hands 
again  —  "I  am  forced  to  be  withered,  to  feel 
pain,  to  be  dying  slowly.  Do  I  love  that?  Well, 
I  have  been  forced  to  obey  my  dead  father.  I 
have  been  forced  to  tell  you  that  you  are  a  Jew, 
and  deliver  to  you  what  he  commanded  me  to 
deliver." 

"  I  beseech  you  to  tell  me  what  moved  you  — 
when  you  were  young,  I  mean  —  to  take  the 
course  you  did,"  said  Deronda,  trying  by  this  ref- 
erence to  the  past  to  escape  from  what  to  him 
was  the  heartrending  piteousness  of  this  mingled 
suffering  and  defiance.  "  I  gather  that  my 
grandfather  opposed  your  bent  to  be  an  artist. 
Though  my  own  experience  has  been  quite  dif- 
ferent, I  enter  into  the  painfulness  of  your  strug- 
gle. I  can  imagine  the  hardship  of  an  enforced 
renunciation." 

"  No,"  said  the  Princess,  shaking  her  head, 
and  folding  her  arms  with  an  air  of  decision. 
"  You  are  not  a  woman.    You  may  try  —  but 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  123 


you  can  never  imagine  what  it  is  to  have  a  man's 
force  of  genius  in  you,  and  yet  to  suffer  the 
slavery  of  being  a  girl.  To  have  a  pattern  cut 
out  —  '  this  is  the  Jewish  woman ;  this  is  what 
you  must  be ;  this  is  what  you  are  wanted  for ;  a 
woman's  heart  must  be  of  such  a  size  and  no 
larger,  else  it  must  be  pressed  small,  like  Chinese 
feet;  her  happiness  is  to  be  made  as  cakes  are, 
by  a  fixed  receipt.'  That  was  what  my  father 
wanted.  He  wished  I  had  been  a  son ;  he  cared 
for  me  as  a  makeshift  link.  His  heart  was  set  on 
his  Judaism.  He  hated  that  Jewish  women 
should  be  thought  of  by  the  Christian  world  as 
a  sort  of  ware  to  make  public  singers  and 
actresses  of.  As  if  we  were  not  the  more  enviable 
for  that!  That  is  a  chance  of  escaping  from 
bondage." 

"  Was  my  grandfather  a  learned  man?  "  said 
Deronda,  eager  to  know  particulars  that  he 
feared  his  mother  might  not  think  of. 

She  answered  impatiently,  putting  up  her 
hand:  "  Oh  yes,  —  and  a  clever  physician  —  and 
good:  I  don't  deny  that  he  was  good.  A  man 
to  be  admired  in  a  play  —  grand,  with  an  iron 
will.  Like  the  old  Foscari  before  he  pardons. 
But  such  men  turn  their  wives  and  daughters 
into  slaves.  They  would  rule  the  world  if  they 
could;  but  not  ruling  the  world,  they  throw  all 
the  weight  of  their  will  on  the  necks  and  souls  of 
women.  But  nature  sometimes  thwarts  them. 
My  father  had  no  other  child  than  his  daughter, 
and  she  was  like  himself." 

She  had  folded  her  arms  again,  and  looked  as 
if  she  were  ready  to  face  some  impending  at- 
tempt at  mastery. 


124  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  Your  father  was  different.  Unlike  me  —  all 
lovingness  and  affection.  I  knew  I  could  rule 
him;  and  I  made  him  secretly  promise  me,  be- 
fore I  married  him,  that  he  would  put  no  hin- 
drance in  the  way  of  my  being  an  artist.  My 
father  was  on  his  death-bed  when  we  were  mar- 
ried :  from  the  first  he  had  fixed  his  mind  on  my 
marrying  my  cousin  Ephraim.  And  when  a 
woman's  will  is  as  strong  as  the  man's  who  wants 
to  govern  her,  half  her  strength  must  be  conceal- 
ment. I  meant  to  have  my  will  in  the  end,  but  I 
could  only  have  it  by  seeming  to  obey.  I  had  an 
awe  of  my  father  —  always  I  had  had  an  awe  of 
him :  it  was  impossible  to  help  it.  I  hated  to  feel 
awed  —  1  wished  I  could  have  defied  him  openly ; 
but  I  never  could.  It  was  what  I  could  not  im- 
agine :  I  could  not  act  it  to  myself  that  I  should 
begin  to  defy  my  father  openly  and  succeed. 
And  I  never  would  risk  failure." 

That  last  sentence  was  uttered  with  an  abrupt 
emphasis,  and  she  paused  after  it  as  if  the 
words  had  raised  a  crowd  of  remembrances  which 
obstructed  speech.  Her  son  was  listening  to 
her  with  feelings  more  and  more  highly  mixed: 
the  first  sense  of  being  repelled  by  the  frank 
coldness  which  had  replaced  all  his  preconcep- 
tions of  a  mother's  tender  joy  in  the  sight  of 
him;  the  first  impulses  of  indignation  at  what 
shocked  his  most  cherished  emotions  and  prin- 
ciples —  all  these  busy  elements  of  collision  be- 
tween them  were  subsiding  for  a  time,  and 
making  more  and  more  room  for  that  effort  at 
just  allowance  and  that  admiration  of  a  forcible 
nature  whose  errors  lay  along  high  pathways, 
which  he  would  have  felt  if,  instead  of  being  his 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  125 


mother,  she  had  been  a  stranger  who  had  appealed 
to  his  sympathy.  Still  it  was  impossible  to  be  dis- 
passionate: he  trembled  lest  the  next  thing  she 
had  to  say  would  be  more  repugnant  to  him  than 
what  had  gone  before:  he  was  afraid  of  the 
strange  coercion  she  seemed  to  be  under  to  lay 
her  mind  bare:  he  almost  wished  he  could  say, 
"  Tell  me  only  what  is  necessary,"  and  then 
again  he  felt  the  fascination  that  made  him 
watch  her  and  listen  to  her  eagerly.  He  tried 
to  recall  her  to  particulars  by  asking: 

"  Where  was  my  grandfather's  home?  " 

"  Here  in  Genoa,  when  I  was  married ;  and 
his  family  had  lived  here  generations  ago.  But 
my  father  had  been  in  various  countries." 

"  You  must  surely  have  lived  in  England?  " 

"  My  mother  was  English  —  a  Jewess  of 
Portuguese  descent.  My  father  married  her  in 
England.  Certain  circumstances  of  that  mar- 
riage made  all  the  difference  in  my  life :  through 
that  marriage  my  father  thwarted  his  own  plans. 
My  mother's  sister  was  a  singer,  and  afterward 
she  married  the  English  partner  of  a  merchant's 
house  here  in  Genoa,  and  they  came  and  lived 
here  eleven  years.  My  mother  died  when  I  was 
eight  years  old,  and  then  my  father  allowed  me 
to  be  continually  with  my  aunt  Leonora  and 
be  taught  under  her  eyes,  as  if  he  had  not  minded 
the  danger  of  her  encouraging  my  wish  to  be  a 
singer,  as  she  had  been.  But  this  was  it  —  I 
saw  it  again  and  again  in  my  father :  he  did  not 
guard  against  consequences,  because  he  felt  sure 
he  could  hinder  them  if  he  liked.  Before  my 
aunt  left  Genoa,  I  had  had  enough  teaching  to 
bring  out  the  born  singer  and  actress  within 


126  DANIEL  DERONDA 


me:  my  father  did  not  know  everything  that 
was  done ;  but  he  knew  that  I  was  taught  music 
and  singing  —  he  knew  my  inclination.  That 
was  nothing  to  him:  he  meant  that  I  should 
obey  his  will.  And  he  was  resolved  that  I 
should  marry  my  cousin  Ephraim,  the  only  one 
left  of  my  father's  family  that  he  knew.  I 
wanted  not  to  marry.  I  thought  of  all  plans 
to  resist  it,  but  at  last  I  found  that  I  could  rule 
my  cousin,  and  I  consented.  My  father  died 
three  weeks  after  we  were  married,  and  then  I 
had  my  way!  "  She  uttered  these  words  almost 
exultantly;  but  after  a  little  pause  her  face 
changed,  and  she  said  in  a  biting  tone:  "  It  has 
not  lasted,  though.  My  father  is  getting  his 
way  now." 

She  began  to  look  more  contemplatively  again 
at  her  son,  and  presently  said: 

"  You  are  hke  him  —  but  milder  —  there  is 
something  of  your  own  father  in  you;  and  he 
made  it  the  labour  of  his  life  to  devote  himself 
to  me:  wound  up  his  money-changing  and 
banking,  and  lived  to  wait  upon  me  —  he  went 
against  his  conscience  for  me.  As  I  loved  the 
life  of  my  art,  so  he  loved  me.  Let  me  look  at 
your  hand  again  —  the  hand  with  the  ring  on. 
It  was  your  father's  ring." 

He  drew  his  chair  nearer  to  her  and  gave  her 
his  hand.  We  know  what  kind  of  hand  it  was: 
her  own,  very  much  smaller,  was  of  the  same 
type.  As  he  felt  the  smaller  hand  holding  his, 
as  he  saw  nearer  to  him  the  face  that  held  the 
likeness  of  his  own,  aged  not  by  time  but  by 
intensity,  the  strong  bent  of  his  nature  toward 
a  reverential  tenderness  asserted  itself  above 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  127 


every  other  impression,  and  in  his  most  fervent 
tone  he  said: 

"Mother!  take  us  all  into  your  heart  —  the 
living  and  the  dead.  Forgive  everything  that 
hurts  you  in  the  past.    Take  my  affection." 

She  looked  at  him  admiringly  rather  than 
lovingly,  then  kissed  him  on  the  brow,  and 
saying  sadly,  "  I  reject  nothing,  but  I  have 
nothing  to  give,"  she  released  his  hand  and  sank 
back  on  her  cushions.  Deronda  turned  pale 
with  what  seems  always  more  of  a  sensation 
than  an  emotion  —  the  pain  of  repulsed  tender- 
ness. She  noticed  the  expression  of  pain,  and 
said,  still  with  melodious  melancholy  in  her 
tones : 

"It  is  better  so.  We  must  part  again  soon, 
and  you  owe  me  no  duties.  I  did  not  wish  you 
to  be  born.  I  parted  with  you  willingly.  When 
your  father  died,  I  resolved  that  I  would  have 
no  more  ties  but  such  as  I  could  free  myself 
from.  I  was  the  Alcharisi  you  have  heard  of  : 
the  name  had  magic  wherever  it  was  carried. 
Men  courted  me.  Sir  Hugo  Mallinger  was  one 
who  wished  to  marry  me.  He  was  madly  in  love 
with  me.  One  day  I  asked  him,  '  Is  there  a  man 
capable  of  doing  something  for  love  of  me,  and 
expecting  nothing  in  return? '  He  said,  '  What 
is  it  you  want  done  ? '  I  said,  '  Take  my  boy  and 
bring  him  up  as  an  Englishman,  and  let  him 
never  know  anything  about  his  parents.'  You 
were  little  more  than  two  years  old,  and  were  sit- 
ting on  his  foot.  He  declared  that  he  would  pay 
money  to  have  such  a  boy.  I  had  not  meditated 
much  on  the  plan  beforehand,  but  as  soon  as  I 
had  spoken  about  it,  it  took  possession  of  me  as 


128  DANIEL  DERONDA 


something  I  could  not  rest  without  doing.  At 
first  he  thought  I  was  not  serious,  but  I  con- 
vinced him,  and  he  was  never  surprised  at  any- 
thing. He  agreed  that  it  would  be  for  your 
good,  and  the  finest  thing  for  you.  A  great 
singer  and  actress  is  a  queen,  but  she  gives  no 
royalty  to  her  son.  —  All  that  happened  at 
Naples.  And  afterwards  I  made  Sir  Hugo  the 
trustee  of  your  fortune.  That  is  what  I  did; 
and  I  had  a  joy  in  doing  it.  My  father  had 
tyrannized  over  me,  —  he  cared  more  about  a 
grandson  to  come  than  he  did  about  me:  I 
counted  as  nothing.  You  were  to  be  such  a  Jew^ 
as  he;  you  were  to  be  what  he  wanted.  But 
you  were  my  son,  and  it  was  my  turn  to  say  what 
you  should  be.  I  said  you  should  not  know  you 
were  a  Jew." 

"  And  for  months  events  have  been  preparing 
me  to  be  glad  that  I  am  a  Jew,"  said  Deronda, 
his  opposition  roused  again.  The  point  touched 
the  quick  of  his  experience.  "  It  would  always 
have  been  better  that  I  should  have  known  the 
truth.  I  have  always  been  rebelling  against  the 
secrecy  that  looked  like  shame.  It  is  no  shame 
to  have  Jewish  parents;  the  shame  is  to  disown 
it." 

"  You  say  it  was  a  shame  to  me,  then,  that  T 
used  that  secrecy,"  said  his  mother,  with  a  flash 
of  new  anger.  "  There  is  no  shame  attaching  to 
me.  I  have  no  reason  to  be  ashamed.  I  rid 
myself  of  the  Jewish  tatters  and  gibberish  that 
make  people  nudge  each  other  at  sight  of  us,  as 
if  we  were  tattooed  under  our  clothes,  though 
our  faces  are  as  whole  as  theirs.  I  delivered  you 
from  the  pelting  contempt  that  pursues  Jewish 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  129 


separateness.  I  am  not  ashamed  that  I  did  it. 
It  was  the  better  for  you." 

"  Then  why  have  you  now  undone  the  secrecy? 
—  no,  not  undone  it,  —  the  effects  will  never  be 
undone.  But  why  have  you  now  sent  for  me  to 
tell  me  that  I  am  a  Jew?  "  said  Deronda,  with 
an  intensity  of  opposition  in  feeling"  that  was 
almost  bitter.  It  seemed  as  if  her  words  had 
called  out  a  latent  obstinacy  of  race  in  him. 

"  Why?  —  ah,  why?  "  said  the  Princess,  rising 
quickly  and  walking  to  the  other  side  of  the 
room,  where  she  turned  round  and  slowly  ap- 
proached him,  as  he,  too,  stood  up.  Then  she 
began  to  speak  again  in  a  more  veiled  voice. 
"  I  can't  explain;  I  can  only  say  what  is.  I 
don't  love  my  father's  religion  now  any  more 
than  I  did  then.  Before  I  married  the  second 
time  I  was  baptized;  I  made  myself  like  the 
people  I  lived  among.  I  had  a  right  to  do  it; 
I  was  not  like  a  brute,  obliged  to  go  with  my  own 
herd.  I  have  not  repented;  I  will  not  say  that 
I  have  repented.  But  yet,"  here  she  had  come 
near  to  her  son,  and  paused;  then  again  re- 
treated a  little  and  stood  still,  as  if  resolute  not 
to  give  way  utterly  to  an  imperious  influence; 
but,  as  she  went  on  speaking,  she  became  more 
and  more  unconscious  of  anything  but  the  awe 
that  subdued  her  voice.  "It  is  illness,  I  don't 
doubt  that  it  has  been  gathering  illness,  —  my, 
mind  has  gone  back;  more  than  a  year  ago  it 
began.  You  see  my  gray  hair,  my  worn  look: 
it  has  all  come  fast.  Sometimes  I  am  in  an 
agony  of  pain,  —  I  dare  say  I  shall  be  to-night. 
Then  it  is  as  if  all  the  life  I  have  chosen  to  live, 
all  thoughts,  all  will,  forsook  me  and  left  me 

VOL.  XIV  —  9 


130  DANIEL  DERONDA 


alone  in  spots  of  memory,  and  I  can't  get  away: 
my  pain  seems  to  keep  me  there.  My  childhood, 
—  my  girlhood,  —  the  day  of  my  marriage,  — 
the  day  of  my  father's  death,  —  there  seems  to 
be  nothing  since.  Then  a  great  horror  comes 
over  me:  what  do  I  know  of  life  or  death?  and 
what  my  father  called  '  right '  may  be  a  power 
that  is  laying  hold  of  me,  —  that  is  clutching  me 
now.  Well,  I  will  satisfy  him.  I  cannot  go  into 
the  darkness  without  satisfying  him.  I  have 
hidden  what  was  his.  I  thought  once  I  would 
burn  it.  I  have  not  burnt  it.  I  thank  God  I 
have  not  burnt  it!  " 

She  threw  herself  on  her  cushions  again,  visi- 
bly fatigued.  Deronda,  moved  too  strongly  by 
her  suffering  for  other  impulses  to  act  within 
him,  drew  near  her,  and  said  entreatingly,  — 

"  Will  you  not  spare  yourself  this  evening? 
Let  us  leave  the  rest  till  to-morrow." 

"  No,"  she  said  decisively.  "  I  will  confess  it 
all,  now  that  I  have  come  up  to  it.  Often  when 
I  am  at  ease  it  all  fades  away;  my  whole  self 
comes  quite  back;  but  I  know  it  will  sink  away 
again,  and  the  other  will  come,  —  the  poor,  soli- 
tary, forsaken  remains  of  self,  that  can  resist 
nothing.  It  was  my  nature  to  resist,  and  say, 
'  I  have  a  right  to  resist.'  Well,  I  say  so  still 
when  I  have  any  strength  in  me.  You  have 
heard  me  say  it,  and  I  don't  withdraw  it.  But 
when  my  strength  goes,  some  other  right  forces 
itself  upon  me  like  iron  in  an  inexorable  hand; 
and  even  when  I  am  at  ease,  it  is  beginning  to 
make  ghosts  upon  the  daylight.  And  now  you 
have  made  it  worse  for  me,"  she  said,  with  a  sud- 
den return  of  impetuosity;  "but  I  shall  have 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  131 


told  you  everything.  And  what  reproach  is 
there  against  me,"  she  added  bitterly,  "  since  I 
have  made  you  glad  to  be  a  Jew?  Joseph 
Kalonymos  reproached  me :  he  said  you  had  been 
turned  into  a  proud  Englishman,  who  resented 
being  touched  by  a  Jew.  I  wish  you  had  !  "  she 
ended,  with  a  new  marvellous  alternation.  It 
was  as  if  her  mind  were  breaking  into  several, 
one  jarring  the  other  into  impulsive  action. 

"  Who  is  Joseph  Kalonymos?  "  said  Deronda, 
with  a  darting  recollection  of  that  Jew  who 
touched  his  arm  in  the  Frankfort  synagogue. 

"  Ah !  some  vengeance  sent  him  back  from  the 
East,  that  he  might  see  you  and  come  to  reproach 
me.  He  was  my  father's  friend.  He  knew  of 
your  birth :  he  knew  of  my  husband's  death,  and 
once,  twenty  years  ago,  after  he  had  been  away 
in  the  Levant,  he  came  to  see  me  and  inquire 
about  you.  I  told  him  that  you  were  dead:  I 
meant  you  to  be  dead  to  all  the  world  of  my  child- 
hood. If  I  had  said  you  were  living,  he  would 
have  interfered  with  my  plans:  he  would  have 
taken  on  him  to  represent  my  father,  and  have 
tried  to  make  me  recall  what  I  had  done.  What 
could  I  do  but  say  you  were  dead?  The  a  A 
was  done.  If  I  had  told  him  of  it  there  would 
have  been  trouble  and  scandal,  —  and  all  to  con- 
quer me,  who  would  not  have  been  conquered. 
I  was  strong  then,  and  I  would  have  had  my 
will,  though  there  might  have  been  a  hard  fight 
against  me.  I  took  the  way  to  have  it  without 
any  fight.  I  felt  then  that  I  was  not  really  de- 
ceiving: it  would  have  come  to  the  same  in  the 
end;  or  if  not  to  the  same,  to  something  worse. 
He  believed  me,  and  begged  that  I  would  give 


132  DANIEL  DERONDA 


up  to  him  the  chest  that  my  father  had  charged 
me  and  my  husband  to  dehver  to  our  eldest  son. 
I  knew  what  was  in  the  chest,  —  things  that  had 
been  dinned  in  my  ears  since  I  had  had  any 
understanding,  —  things  that  were  thrust  on 
my  mind  that  I  might  feel  them  like  a  wall 
around  my  life,  —  my  life  that  was  growing  like 
a  tree.  Once,  after  my  husband  died,  I  ^as  go- 
ing to  burn  the  chest.  But  it  was  difficult  to 
burn ;  and  burning  a  chest  and  papers  looks  like 
a  shameful  act.  1  have  committed  no  shameful 
act,  —  except  what  Jews  would  call  shameful.  I 
had  kept  the  chest,  and  I  gave  it  to  Joseph 
Kalonymos.  He  went  away  mournful,  and  said, 
'  If  you  marry  again,  and  if  another  grandson 
is  born  to  him  who  is  departed,  I  will  deliver  up 
the  chest  to  him.'  I  bowed  in  silence.  I  meant 
not  to  marry  again,  —  no  more  than  I  meant 
to  be  the  shattered  woman  that  I  am  now."  - 

She  ceased  speaking,  and  her  head  sank  back 
while  she  looked  vaguely  before  her.  Her 
thought  was  travelling  through  the  years,  and 
when  she  began  to  speak  again  her  voice  had 
lost  its  argumentative  spirit,  and  had  fallen  into 
a  veiled  tone  of  distress. 

"  But  months  ago  this  Kalonymos  saw  you  in 
the  synagogue  at  Frankfort.  He  saw  you  enter 
the  hotel,  and  he  went  to  ask  your  name.  There 
was  nobody  else  in  the  world  to  whom  the  name 
would  have  told  anything  about  me." 

"  Then  it  is  not  my  real  name? "  said  De- 
ronda,  with  a  dislike  even  to  this  trifling  part 
of  the  disguise  which  had  been  thrown  round 
him. 

"  Oh,  as  real  as  another,"  said  his  mother,  in- 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  133 


differently.  "  The  Jews  have  always  been 
changing  their  names.  My  father's  family  had 
kept  the  name  of  Charisi:  my  husband  was  a 
Charisi.  When  I  came  out  as  a  singer,  we  made 
it  Alcharisi.  But  there  had  been  a  branch  of  the 
family  my  father  had  lost  sight  of  who  called 
themselves  Deronda,  and  when  I  wanted  a  name 
for  you,  and  Sir  Hugo  said,  '  Let  it  be  a  foreign 
name,'  I  thought  of  Deronda.  But  Joseph 
Kalonymos  had  heard  my  father  speak  of  the 
Deronda  branch,  and  the  name  confirmed  his 
suspicion.  He  began  to  suspect  what  had  been 
done.  It  was  as  if  everything  had  been  whis- 
pered to  him  in  the  air.  He  found  out  where 
I  was.  He  took  a  journey  into  Russia  to  see 
me;  he  found  me  weak  and  shattered.  He  had 
come  back  again,  with  his  white  hair,  and  with 
rage  in  his  soul  against  me.  He  said  I  was  going 
down  to  the  grave  clad  in  falsehood  and  rob- 
bery, —  falsehood  to  my  father  and  robbery  of 
my  own  child.  He  accused  me  of  having  kept 
the  knowledge  of  your  birth  from  you,  and  hav- 
ing brought  you  up  as  if  you  had  been  the  son 
of  an  English  gentleman.  Well,  it  was  true; 
and  twenty  years  before  I  would  have  main- 
tained that  I  had  a  right  to  do  it.  But  I  can 
maintain  nothing  now.  No  faith  is  strong  with- 
in me.  My  father  may  have  God  on  his  side. 
This  man's  words  were  like  lion's  teeth  upon 
me.  My  father's  threats  eat  into  me  with  my 
pain.  If  I  tell  everything,  —  if  I  deliver  up 
everything,  —  what  else  can  be  demanded  of  me  ? 
I  cannot  make  myself  love  the  people  I  have 
never  loved,  —  is  it  not  enough  that  I  lost  the 
life  I  did  love?" 


134  DANIEL  DERONDA 


She  had  leaned  forward  a  little  in  her  low- 
toned  pleading,  that  seemed  like  a  smothered 
cry:  her  arms  and  hands  were  stretched  out  at 
full  length,  as  if  strained  in  beseeching.  De- 
ronda's  soul  was  absorbed  in  the  anguish  of  com- 
passion. He  could  not  mind  now  that  he  had 
been  repulsed  before.  His  pity  made  a  flood 
of  forgiveness  within  him.  His  single  impulse 
was  to  kneel  by  her  and  take  her  hand  gently 
between  his  palms,  while  he  said  in  that  exqui- 
site voice  of  soothing  which  expresses  oneness 
with  the  sufferer,  — 

"Mother,  take  comfort!"  . 

She  did  not  seem  inclined  to  repulse  him  now, 
but  looked  down  at  him  and  let  him  take  both 
her  hands  to  fold  between  his.  Gradually  tears 
gathered,  but  fehe  pressed  her  handkerchief 
against  her  eyes  and  then  leaned  her  cheek 
against  his  brow,  as  if  she  wished  that  they 
should  not  look  at  each  other. 

"Is  it  not  possible  that  I  could  be  near  you 
often  and  comfort  you?"  said  Deronda.  He 
was  under  that  stress  of  pity  that  propels  us  on 
sacrifices. 

"  No,  not  possible,"  she  answered,  lifting  up 
her  head  again  and  withdrawing  her  hand  as  if 
she  wished  him  to  move  away.  "  I  have  a  hus- 
band and  five  children.  None  of  them  know  of 
your  existence." 

Deronda  felt  painfully  silenced.  He  rose  and 
stood  at  a  little  distance. 

"  You  wonder  why  I  married,"  she  went  on 
presently,  under  the  influence  of  a  newly  recur- 
ring thought.  "  I  meant  never  to  marry  again. 
I  meant  to  be  free,  and  to  live  for  my  art.  I 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  135 


had  parted  with  you.  I  had  no  bonds.  For 
nine  years  I  was  a  queen.  I  enjoyed  the  Hfe 
I  had  longed  for.  But  something  befell  me. 
It  was  like  a  fit  of  forgetfulness.  I  began  to 
sing  out  of  tune.  They  told  me  of  it.  Another 
woman  was  thrusting  herself  in  my  place.  I 
could  not  endure  the  prospect  of  failure  and 
decline.  It  was  horrible  to  me."  She  started 
up  again,  with  a  shudder,  and  lifted  screening- 
hands  like  one  who  dreads  missiles.  "  It  drove 
me  to  marry.  I  made  believe  that  I  preferred 
being  the  wife  of  a  Russian  noble  to  being  the 
greatest  lyric  actress  of  Europe ;  I  made  believe, 

—  I  acted  that  part.  It  was  because  I  felt  my 
greatness  sinking  away  from  me,  as  I  feel  my 
life  sinking  now.  I  would  not  wait  till  men  said, 
*  She  had  better  go.'  " 

She  sank  into  her  seat  again,  and  looked  at 
the  evening  sky  as  she  went  on:  "I  repented. 
It  was  a  resolve  taken  in  desperation.  That 
singing  out  of  tune  was  only  like  a  fit  of  illness ; 
it  went  away.  I  repented;  but  it  was  too  late. 
I  could  not  go  back.    All  things  hindered  me, 

—  all  things." 

A  new  haggardness  had  come  in  her  face,  but 
her  son  refrained  from  again  urging  her  to  leave 
further  speech  till  the  morrow:  there  was  evi- 
dently some  mental  relief  for  her  in  an  outpour- 
ing such  as  she  could  never  have  allowed  herself 
before.  He  stood  still  while  she  maintained 
silence  longer  than  she  knew,  and  the  light  was 
perceptibly  fading.  At  last  she  turned  to  him 
and  said,  — 

"  I  can  bear  no  more  now."  She  put  out  her 
hand,  but  then  quickly  withdrew  it,  sa^nng. 


136  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  Stay.  How  do  I  know  that  I  can  see  you 
again?  I  cannot  bear  to  be  seen  when  I  am  in 
pain." 

She  drew  forth  a  pocket-book,  and  taking  out 
a  letter  said,  "  This  is  addressed  to  the  banking- 
house  in  Mainz,  where  you  are  to  go  for  your 
grandfather's  chest.  It  is  a  letter  written  by 
Joseph  Kalonymos:  if  he  is  not  there  himself, 
this  order  of  his  will  be  obeyed." 

When  Deronda  had  taken  the  letter,  she  said 
with  effort,  but  more  gently  than  before,  "  Kneel 
again,  and  let  me  kiss  you." 

He  obeyed,  and  holding  his  head  between  her 
hands  she  kissed  him  solemnly  on  the  brow. 
"  You  see  I  had  no  life  left  to  love  you  with," 
she  said  in  a  low  murmur.  "  But  there  is  more 
fortune  for  you.  Sir  Hugo  was  to  keep  it  in 
reserve.  I  gave  you  all  your  father's  fortune. 
They  can  never  accuse  me  of  robbery  there." 

"  If  you  had  needed  anything  I  would  have 
worked  for  you,"  said  Deronda,  conscious  of  a 
disappointed  yearning,  —  a  shutting  out  forever 
from  long  early  vistas  of  affectionate  imagi- 
nation. 

"  I  need  nothing  that  the  skill  of  man  can  give 
me,"  said  his  mother,  still  holding  his  head,  and 
perusing  his  features.  "  But  perhaps  now  I  have 
satisfied  my  father's  will,  your  face  will  come 
instead  of  his,  —  your  young,  loving  face." 

"  But  you  will  see  me  again?  "  said  Deronda, 
anxiously. 

"  Yes,  —  perhaps.  Wait,  wait.  Leave  me 
now." 


CHAPTER  III 


La  meme  fermete  qui  sert  a  resister  a  I'amour  sert  aussi  a  le  rendre 
violent  et  durable;  et  les  personnes  foibles  qui  sont  toujours  agitees 
des  passions  n'en  sont  presque  jamais  veritablement  remplies.  —  La 
Rochefoucauld. 

A  MONG  Deronda's  letters  the  next  morn- 
/-%  ing  was  one  from  Hans  Meyrick  of  four 
quarto  pages,  in  the  small  beautiful  hand- 
writing which  ran  in  the  Meyrick  family. 

My  dear  Deronda,  —  In  return  for  your  sketch  of 
Italian  movements  and  your  view  of  the  world's  alfairs 
generally,  I  may  say  that  here  at  home  the  most  judi- 
cious opinion  going  as  to  the  effects  of  present  causes 
is  that  "  time  will  show."  As  to  the  present  causes  of 
past  effects,  it  is  now  seen  that  the  late  swindling  tele- 
grams account  for  the  last  year's  cattle  plague, — which 
is  a  refutation  of  philosophy  falsely  so  called,  and  jus- 
tifies the  compensation  to  the  farmers.  My  own  idea 
that  a  murrain  will  shortly  break  out  in  the  commer- 
cial class,  and  that  the  cause  will  subsequently  disclose 
itself  in  the  ready  sale  of  all  rejected  pictures,  has  been 
called  an  unsound  use  of  analogy ;  but  there  are  minds 
that  will  not  hesitate  to  rob  even  the  neglected  painter 
of  his  solace.  To  my  feeling  there  is  great  beauty 
in  the  conception  that  some  bad  judge  might  give  a 
high  price  for  my  Berenice  series,  and  that  the  men  in 
the  city  would  have  already  been  punished  for  my  ill- 
merited  luck. 

Meanwhile  I  am  consoling  myself  for  your  absence 
by  finding  my  advantage  in  it,  —  shining  like  Hes- 
perus when  Hyperion  has  departed,  —  sitting  with  our 
Hebrew  prophet,  and  making  a  study  of  his  head,  in 


138  DANIEL  DERONDA 


the  hours  when  he  used  to  be  occupied  with  you,  — 
getting  credit  with  him  as  a  learned  young  Gentile, 
who  would  have  been  a  Jew  if  he  could,  —  and  agree- 
ing with  him  in  the  general  principle,  that  whatever  is 
best  is  for  that  reason  Jewish.  I  never  held  it  my 
forte  to  be  a  severe  reasoner,  but  I  can  see  that  if 
whatever  is  best  is  A  and  B  happens  to  be  best,  B 
must  be  A,  however  little  you  might  have  expected  it 
beforehand.  On  that  principle  I  could  see  the  force 
of  a  pamphlet  I  once  read  to  prove  that  all  good  art 
was  Protestant.  However,  our  prophet  is  an  uncom- 
monly interesting  sitter,  —  a  better  model  than  Rem- 
brandt had  for  his  Rabbi,  —  and  I  never  come  away 
from  him  without  a  new  discovery.  For  one  thing,  it 
is  a  constant  wonder  to  me  that,  with  all  his  fiery  feel- 
ing for  his  race  and  their  traditions,  he  is  no  strait- 
laced  Jew,  spitting  after  the  word  Christian,  and 
enj  oying  the  prospect  that  the  Gentile  mouth  will  water 
in  vain  for  a  slice  of  the  roasted  Leviathan,  while 
Israel  will  be  sending  up  plates  for  more,  ad  libitum. 
(You  perceive  that  my  studies  had  taught  me  what  to 
expect  from  the  orthodox  Jew.)  I  confess  that  I  have 
always  held  lightly  by  your  account  of  Mordecai,  as 
apologetic,  and  merely  part  of  your  disposition  to  take 
an  antediluvian  point  of  view  lest  you  should  do  in- 
justice to  the  megatherium.  But  now  I  have  given 
ear  to  him  in  his  proper  person,  I  find  him  really  a 
sort  of  philosophical-allegorical-mystical  believer,  and 
yet  with  a  sharp  dialectic  point,  so  that  any  argumenta- 
tive rattler  of  peas  in  a  bladder  might  soon  be  pricked 
into  silence  by  him.  The  mixture  may  be  one  of  the 
Jewish  prerogatives,  for  what  I  know.  In  fact,  his 
mind  seems  so  broad  that  I  find  my  own  correct  opin- 
ions lying  in  it  quite  commodiously,  and  how  they  are 
to  be  brought  into  agreement  with  the  vast  remainder 
is  his  affair,  not  mine.  I  leave  it  to  him  to  settle  our 
basis,  never  yet  having  seen  a  basis  which  is  not  a 
world-supporting  elephant,  more  or  less  powerful  and 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  139 


expensive  to  keep.  My  means  will  not  allow  me  to 
keep  a  private  elephant.  I  go  into  mystery  instead,  as 
cheaper  and  more  lasting,  —  a  sort  of  gas  which  is 
likely  to  be  continually  supplied  by  the  decomposition 
of  the  elephants.  And  if  I  like  the  look  of  an  opinion, 
I  treat  it  civilly,  without  suspicious  inquiries.  I  have 
quite  a  friendly  feeling  towards  Mordecai's  notion  that 
a  whole  Christian  is  three  fourths  a  Jew,  and  that  from 
the  Alexandrian  time  downward,  the  most  comprehen- 
sive minds  have  been  Jewish;  for  I  think  of  pointing 
out  to  Mirah  that,  Arabic  and  other  accidents  of  life 
apart,  there  is  really  little  difference  between  me  and  — 
Maimonides.  But  I  have  lately  been  finding  out  that 
it  is  your  shallow  lover  who  can't  help  making  a  decla- 
ration. If  Mirah's  ways  were  less  distracting,  and  it 
were  less  of  a  heaven  to  be  in  her  presence  and  watch 
her,  I  must  long  ago  have  flung  myself  at  her  feet,  and 
requested  her  to  tell  me,  with  less  indirectness,  whether 
she  wished  me  to  blow  my  brains  out.  I  have  a  knack 
of  hoping,  which  is  as  good  as  an  estate  in  reversion, 
if  one  can  keep  from  the  temptation  of  turning  it  into 
certainty,  which  may  spoil  all.  My  Hope  wanders 
among  the  orchard-blossoms,  feels  the  warm  snow  fall- 
ing on  it  through  the  sunshine,  and  is  in  doubt  of 
nothing;  but,  catching  sight  of  Certainty  in  the  dis- 
tance, sees  an  ugly  Janus-faced  deit}^,  with  a  dubious 
wink  on  the  hither  side  of  him,  and  turns  quickly 
away.  But  you,  with  your  supreme  reasonableness, 
and  self-nullification,  and  preparation  for  the  worst,  — 
you  know  nothing  about  Hope,  that  immortal  delicious 
maiden,  forever  courted,  forever  propitious,  whom  fools 
have  called  deceitful,  as  if  it  were  Hope  that  carried  the 
cup  of  disappointment,  whereas  it  is  her  deadly  enemy 
Certainty,  whom  she  only  escapes  by  transformation. 
(You  observe  my  new  vein  of  allegory?)  Seriously, 
however,  I  must  be  permitted  to  allege  that  truth 
will  prevail,  that  prejudice  will  melt  before  it,  that 
diversity,  accompanied  by  merit,  will  make  itself  felt 


140         DANIEL  DERONDA 


as  fascination,  and  that  no  virtuous  aspiration  will  be 
frustrated,  —  all  which,  if  I  mistake  not,  are  doctrines 
of  the  schools,  and  all  imply  that  the  Jewess  I  prefer 
will  prefer  me.  Any  blockhead  can  cite  generalities, 
but  the  master-mind  discerns  the  particular  cases  they 
represent. 

I  am  less  convinced  that  my  society  makes  amends 
to  Mordecai  for  your  absence,  but  another  substitute 
occasionally  comes  in  the  form  of  Jacob  Cohen.  It  is 
worth  while  to  catch  our  prophet's  expression  when 
he  has  that  remarkable  type  of  young  Israel  on  his 
knee,  and  pours  forth  some  Semitic  inspiration  with  a 
sublime  look  of  melancholy  patience  and  devoutness. 
Sometimes  it  occurs  to  Jacob  that  Hebrew  will  be 
more  edifying  to  him  if  he  stops  his  ears  with  his 
palms,  and  imitates  the  venerable  sounds  as  heard 
through  that  muffling  medium.  When  Mordecai  gently 
draws  down  the  little  fists  and  holds  them  fast,  Jacob's 
features  all  take  on  an  extraordinary  activity,  very 
much  as  if  he  were  walking  through  a  menagerie  and 
trying  to  imitate  every  animal  in  turn,  succeeding  best 
with  the  owl  and  the  peccary.  But  I  dare  say  you 
have  seen  something  of  this.  He  treats  me  with  the 
easiest  familiarity,  and  seems  in  general  to  look  at  me 
as  a  second-hand  Christian  commodity,  likely  to  come 
down  in  price;  remarking  on  my  disadvantages  with 
a  frankness  which  seems  to  imply  some  thoughts  of 
future  purchase.  It  is  pretty,  though,  to  see  the 
change  in  him  if  Mirah  happens  to  come  in.  He 
turns  child  suddenly,  —  his  age  usually  strikes  one  as 
being  like  the  Israelitish  garments  in  the  desert,  per- 
haps near  forty,  yet  with  an  air  of  recent  production. 
But,  with  Mirah,  he  reminds  me  of  the  dogs  that  have 
been  brought  up  by  women,  and  remain  manageable 
by  them  only.  Still,  the  dog  is  fond  of  Mordecai  too, 
and  brings  sugar-plums  to  share  with  him,  filling  his 
own  mouth  to  rather  an  embarrassing  extent,  and 
watching  how  Mordecai  deals  with  a  smaller  supply. 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  141 


Judging  from  this  modern  Jacob  at  the  age  of  six,  mj 
astonishment  is  that  his  race  has  not  bought  us  all  up 
long  ago,  and  pocketed  our  feebler  generations  in  the 
form  of  stock  and  scrip,  as  so  much  slave  property. 
There  is  one  Jewess  I  should  not  mind  being  slave  to. 
But  I  wish  I  did  not  imagine  that  Mirah  gets  a  little 
sadder,  and  tries  all  the  while  to  hide  it.  It  is  natural 
enough,  of  course,  while  she  has  to  watch  the  slow 
death  of  this  brother,  whom  she  has  taken  to  worship- 
ping with  such  looks  of  loving  devoutness  that  I  am 
ready  to  wish  myself  in  his  place. 

For  the  rest,  we  are  a  little  merrier  than  usual. 
Rex  Gascoigne  —  you  remember  a  head  you  admired 
among  my  sketches,  a  fellow  with  a  good  upper  lip, 
reading  law  —  has  got  some  rooms  in  town  now  not 
far  off  us,  and  has  had  a  neat  sister  (upper  lip  also 
good)  staying  with  him  the  last  fortnight.  I  have 
introduced  them  both  to  my  mother  and  the  girls,  who 
have  found  out  from  Miss  Gascoigne  that  she  is  cousin 
to  your  Vandyke  duchess !  !  !  I  put  the  notes  of  excla- 
mation to  mark  the  surprise  that  the  information  at 
first  produced  on  my  feeble  understanding.  On  reflec- 
tion I  discovered  that  there  was  not  the  least  ground 
for  surprise,  unless  I  had  beforehand  believed  that 
nobody  could  be  anybody's  cousin  without  my  knowing 
it.  This  sort  of  surprise,  I  take  it,  depends  on  a  live- 
liness of  the  spine,  with  a  more  or  less  constant  nullity 
of  brain.  There  was  a  fellow  I  used  to  meet  at  Rome 
who  was  in  an  effervescence  of  surprise  at  contact  with 
the  simplest  information.  Tell  him  what  you  would, 
—  that  you  were  fond  of  easy  boots,  —  he  would 
always  say,  "No!  are  you.^^  "  with  the  same  energy 
of  wonder:  the  very  fellow  of  whom  pastoral  Browne 
wrote  prophetically,  — 

"A  wretch  so  empty  that  if  e'er  there  be 
In  nature  found  the  least  vacuity, 
'T  will  be  in  him." 

I  have  accounted  for  it  all,  —  he  had  a  liveW  spine. 


142         DANIEL  DERONDA 


However,  this  cousinship  with  the  duchess  came  out 
by  chance  one  day  that  Mirah  was  with  them  at  home 
and  they  were  talking  about  the  MalHngers.  Apropos; 
I  am  getting  so  important  that  I  have  rival  invita- 
tions. Gascoigne  wants  me  to  go  down  with  him  to 
his  father's  rectory  in  August  and  see  the  country 
round  there.  But  I  think  self-interest  well  understood 
will  take  me  to  Topping  Abbey,  for  Sir  Hugo  has 
invited  me,  and  proposes  —  God  bless  him  for  his  rash- 
ness !  —  that  I  should  make  a  picture  of  his  three 
daughters  sitting  on  a  bank,  —  as  he  says,  in  the 
Gainsborough  style.  He  came  to  my  studio  the  other 
day,  and  recommended  me  to  apply  myself  to  portrait. 
Of  course  I  know  what  that  means.  —  "  My  good  fel- 
low, your  attempts  at  the  historic  and  poetic  are  simply 
pitiable.  Your  brush  is  just  that  of  a  successful  por- 
trait-painter, —  it  has  a  little  truth  and  a  great  facility 
in  falsehood,  —  your  idealism  will  never  do  for  gods 
and  goddesses  and  heroic  story,  but  it  may  fetch  a  high 
price  as  flattery.  Fate,  my  friend,  has  made  you  the 
hinder  wheel, — rota  posterior  curras,  et  in  axe  secundo, 
—  run  behind,  because  you  can't  help  it."  —  What 
great  effort  it  evidently  costs  our  friends  to  give  us 
these  candid  opinions !  I  have  even  known  a  man  take 
the  trouble  to  call,  in  order  to  tell  me  that  I  had  irre- 
trievably exposed  my  want  of  judgment  in  treating  my 
subject,  and  that  if  I  had  asked  him  he  would  have  lent 
me  his  own  judgment.  Such  was  my  ingratitude  and 
my  readiness  at  composition,  that  even  while  he  was 
speaking  I  inwardly  sketched  a  Last  Judgment  with 
that  candid  friend's  physiognomy  on  the  left.  But  all 
this  is  away  from  Sir  Hugo,  whose  manner  of  implying 
that  one's  gifts  are  not  of  the  highest  order  is  so  ex- 
ceedingly good-natured  and  comfortable  that  I  begin 
to  feel  it  an  advantage  not  to  be  among  those  poor  fel- 
lows at  the  tip-top.  And  his  kindness  to  me  tastes  all 
the  better  because  it  comes  out  of  his  love  for  you,  o/d 
boy.    His  chat  is  uncommonly  amusing.    By  the  way, 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  143 


he  told  me  that  your  Vandyke  duchess  is  gone  with  her 
husband  yachting  to  the  Mediterranean.  I  bethink 
me  that  it  is  possible  to  land  from  a  yacht,  or  to  be 
taken  on  to  a  yacht  from  the  land.  Shall  you  by  chance 
have  an  opportunity  of  continuing  your  theological 
discussion  with  the  fair  Supralapsarian,  —  I  think  you 
said  her  tenets  were  of  that  complexion  .^^  Is  Duke 
Alphonso  also  theological  —  perhaps  an  Arian  who 
objects  to  triplicity.  (Stage  direction.  While  D.  is 
reading,  a  profound  scorn  gathers  in  his  face  till  at  the 
last  word  he  flings  down  the  letter,  grasps,  his  coat- 
collar  in  a  statuesque  attitude,  and  so  remains,  with  a 
look  generally  tremendous,  throughout  the  following 
soliloquy,  "O  night,  O  blackness,  etc.") 

Excuse  the  brevity  of  this  letter.  You  are  not  used 
to  more  from  me  than  a  bare  statement  of  facts,  with- 
out comment  or  digression.  One  fact  I  have  omitted 
—  that  the  Klesmers  on  the  eve  of  departure  have 
behaved  magnificently,  shining  forth  as  might  be  ex- 
pected from  the  planets  of  genius  and  fortune  in  con- 
junction.   Mirah  is  rich  with  their  oriental  gifts. 

What  luck  it  will  be  if  you  come  back  and  present 
yourself  at  the  Abbey  while  I  am  there!  I  am  going 
to  behave  with  consummate  discretion  and  win  golden 
opinions.  But  I  shall  run  up  to  town  now  and  then, 
just  for  a  peep  into  Gan  Eden.  You  see  how  far  I 
have  got  in  Hebrew  lore,  —  up  with  my  Lord  Boling- 
broke,  who  knew  no  Hebrew,  but  "  understood  that  sort 
of  learning  and  what  is  writ  about  it."  If  Mirah  com- 
manded, I  would  go  to  a  depth  below  the  tri-literal 
roots.  Already  it  makes  no  difference  to  me  whether 
the  points  are  there  or  not.  But  while  her  brother's 
life  lasts  I  suspect  she  would  not  listen  to  a  lover,  even 
one  whose  "  hair  is  Hke  a  flock  of  goats  on  Mount 
Gilead  "  —  and  I  flatter  myself  that  few  heads  would 
bear  that  trying  comparison  better  than  mine.  So  I 
stay  with  my  hope  among  the  orchard-blossoms. 

Your  devoted  Hans  Metric k. 


144  DANIEL  DEHONDA 


Some  months  before,  this  letter  from  Hans 
would  have  divided  Deronda's  thoughts  irritat- 
ingly:  its  romancing  about  Mirah  would  have 
had  an  unpleasant  edge,  scarcely  anointed  with 
any  commiseration  for  his  friend's  probable  dis- 
appointment. But  things  had  altered  since 
March.  Mirah  was  no  longer  so  critically  placed 
with  regard  to  the  Meyricks,  and  Deronda's  own 
position  had  been  undergoing  a  change  which 
had  just  been  crowned  by  the  revelation  of  his 
birth.  The  new  opening  towards  the  future, 
though  he  would  not  trust  in  any  definite  visions, 
inevitably  shed  new  lights,  and  influenced  his 
mood  towards  past  and  present;  hence,  what 
Hans  called  his  hope  now  seemed  to  Deronda, 
not  a  mischievous  unreasonableness  which  roused 
his  indignation,  but  an  unusually  persistent  bird- 
dance  of  an  extravagant  fancy,  and  he  would 
have  felt  quite  able  to  pity  any  consequent  suffer- 
ing of  his  friend's,  if  he  had  believed  in  the  suffer- 
ing as  probable.  But  some  of  the  busy  thought 
filling  that  long  day,  which  passed  without  his 
receiving  any  new  summons  from  his  mother, 
was  given  to  the  argument  that  Hans  Meyrick's 
nature  was  not  one  in  which  love  could  strike  the 
deep  roots  that  turn  disappointment  into  sorrow: 
it  was  too  restless,  too  readily  excitable  by  nov- 
elty, too  ready  to  turn  itself  into  imaginative 
material,  and  wear  its  grief  as  a  fantastic  cos- 
tume. "  Already  he  is  beginning  to  play  at  love : 
he  is  taking  the  whole  affair  as  a  comedy,"  said 
Deronda  to  himself;  "  he  knows  very  well  that 
there  is  no  chance  for  him.  Just  like  him,  — 
never  opening  his  eyes  on  any  possible  objec- 
tion I  could  have  to  receive  his  outpourings  about 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  145 


Mirah.  Poor  old  Hans!  If  we  were  under  a 
fiery  hail  together,  he  would  howl  like  a  Greek, 
and  if  I  did  not  howl  too,  it  would  never  occur 
to  him  that  I  was  as  badly  off  as  he.  And  yet  he 
is  tender-hearted  and  affectionate  in  intention, 
and  I  can't  say  that  he  is  not  active  in  imagining 
what  goes  on  in  other  people,  —  but  then  he  al- 
ways imagines  it  to  fit  his  own  inclination." 

With  this  touch  of  causticity  Deronda  got  rid 
of  the  slight  heat  at  present  raised  by  Hans's 
naive  expansiveness.  The  nonsense  about  Gwen- 
dolen, conveying  the  fact  that  she  was  gone 
yachting  with  her  husband,  only  suggested  a  dis- 
turbing sequel  to  his  own  strange  parting  with 
her.  But  there  was  one  sentence  in  the  letter 
which  raised  a  more  immediate,  active  anxiety. 
Hans's  suspicion  of  a  hidden  sadness  in  Mirah 
was  not  in  the  direction  of  his  wishes,  and  hence, 
instead  of  distrusting  his  observation  here,  De- 
ronda began  to  conceive  a  cause  for  the  sadness. 
Was  it  some  event  that  had  occurred  during  his 
absence,  or  only  the  growing  fear  of  some  event  ? 
Was  it  something,  perhaps  alterable,  in  the  new 
position  which  had  been  made  for  her?  Or  had 
Mordecai,  against  his  habitual  f-esolve,  communi- 
cated to  her  those  peculiar  cherished  hopes  about 
him,  Deronda,  and  had  her  quickly  sensitive 
nature  been  hurt  by  the  discovery  that  her 
brother's  will  or  tenacity  of  visionary  conviction 
had  acted  coercively  on  their  friendship, —  been 
hurt  by  the  fear  that  there  was  more  of  pitying 
self -suppression  than  of  equal  regard  in  De- 
ronda's  relation  to  him?  For  amidst  all  Mirah's 
quiet  renunciation,  the  evident  thirst  of  soul 
with  which  she  received  the  tribute  of  equality 

YOL.  XIV  —  10 


146  DANIEL  DERONDA 


implied  a  corresponding  pain  if  she  found  that 
what  she  had  taken  for  a  purely  reverential 
regard  towards  her  brother  had  its  mixture  of 
condescension. 

In  this  last  conjecture  of  Deronda's  he  was 
not  wrong  as  to  the  quality  in  JVIirah's  nature  on 
which  he  was  founding,  —  the  latent  protest 
against  the  treatment  she  had  all  her  hfe  been 
subject  to  until  she  met  him.  For  that  gratitude 
which  would  not  let  her  pass  by  any  notice  of 
their  acquaintance  without  insisting  on  the  depth 
of  her  debt  to  him,  took  half  its  fervour  from  the 
keen  comparison  with  what  others  had  thought 
enough  to  render  to  her.  Deronda's  affinity  in 
feeling  enabled  him  to  penetrate  such  secrets. 
But  he  was  not  near  the  truth  in  admitting  the 
idea  that  Mordecai  had  broken  his  characteristic 
reticence.  To  no  soul  but  Deronda  himself  had 
he  yet  breathed  the  history  of  their  relation  to  each 
other,  or  his  confidence  about  his  friend's  origin : 
it  was  not  only  that  these  subjects  were  for  him 
too  sacred  to  be  spoken  of  without  weighty 
reasons,  but  that  he  had  discerned  Deronda's 
shrinking  at  any  mention  of  his  birth;  and  the 
severity  of  reserve  which  had  hindered  Mordecai 
from  answering  a  question  on  a  private  affair  of 
the  Cohen  family  told  yet  more  strongly  here. 

"  Ezra,  how  is  it?  "  Mirah  one  day  said  to  him, 
—  "I  am  continually  going  to  speak  to  JNIr.  De- 
ronda as  if  he  were  a  Jew." 

He  smiled  at  her  quietly,  and  said:  "  I  sup- 
pose it  is  because  he  treats  us  as  if  he  were  our 
brother.  But  he  loves  not  to  have  the  difference 
of  birth  dwelt  upon." 

"  He  has  never  lived  with  his  parents,  Mr. 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  147 


Hans  says,"  continued  Mirah,  to  whom  this  was 
necessarily  a  question  of  interest  about  every  one 
for  whom  she  had  a  regard. 

"  Seek  not  to  know  such  things  from  Mr. 
Hans,"  said  Mordecai,  gravely,  laying  his  hand 
on  her  curls,  as  he  was  wont.  "  What  Daniel 
Deronda  wishes  us  to  know  about  himself  is  for 
him  to  tell  us." 

And  Mirah  felt  herself  rebuked,  as  Deronda 
had  done.  But  to  be  rebuked  in  this  way  by 
Mordecai  made  her  rather  proud. 

"  I  see  no  one  so  great  as  my  brother,"  she 
said  to  Mrs.  Meyrick  one  day  that  she  called  at 
the  Chelsea  house  on  her  way  home,  and,  accord- 
ing to  her  hope,  found  the  little  mother  alone. 
"It  is  difficult  to  think  that  he  belongs  to  the 
same  world  as  those  people  I  used  to  live 
amongst.  I  told  you  once  that  they  made  life 
seem  like  a  madhouse ;  but  when  I  am  with  Ezra 
he  makes  me  feel  that  his  life  is  a  great  good, 
though  he  has  suffered  so  much ;  not  like  me,  who 
wanted  to  die  because  I  had  suffered  a  little,  and 
only  for  a  little  while.  His  soul  is  so  full,  it  is  im- 
possible for  him  to  wish  for  death  as  I  did.  I 
get  the  same  sort  of  feeling  from  him  that  I  got 
yesterday,  when  I  was  tired,  and  came  home 
through  the  park  after  the  sweet  rain  had  fallen 
and  the  sunshine  lay  on  the  grass  and  flowers. 
Everything  in  the  sky  and  under  the  sky  looked 
so  pure  and  beautiful  that  the  weariness  and 
trouble  and  folly  seemed  only  a  small  part  of 
what  is,  and  I  became  more  patient  and  hopeful." 

A  dovelike  note  of  melancholy  in  this  speech 
caused  Mrs.  Meyrick  to  look  at  Mirah  with  new 
examination.    After  laying  down  her  hat  and 


148  DANIEL  DERONDA 


pushing  her  curls  flat,  with  an  air  of  fatigue,  she 
had  placed  herself  on  a  chair  opposite  her  friend 
in  her  habitual  attitude,  her  feet  and  hands  just 
crossed :  and  at  a  distance  she  might  have  seemed 
a  coloured  statue  of  serenity. 

But  Mrs.  Meyrick  discerned  a  new  look  of 
suppressed  suffering  in  her  face,  which  corre- 
sponded to  the  hint  that  to  be  patient  and  hopeful 
required  some  extra  influence. 

"  Is  there  any  fresh  trouble  on  your  mind,  my 
dear?  "  said  Mrs.  Meyrick,  giving  up  her  needle- 
work as  a  sign  of  concentrated  attention. 

Mirah  hesitated  before  she  said:  "I  am  too 
ready  to  speak  of  troubles,  I  think.  It  seems 
unkind  to  put  anything  painful  into  other 
people's  minds,  unless  one  were  sure  it  would 
hinder  something  worse.  And  perhaps  I  am  too 
hasty  and  fearful." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  mothers  are  made  to  like  pain  - 
and  trouble  for  the  sake  of  their  children.  Is  it 
because  the  singing-lessons  are  so  few,  and  are 
likely  to  fall  off  when  the  season  comes  to  an  end? 
Success  in  these  things  can't  come  all  at  once." 
Mrs.  Meyrick  did  not  believe  that  she  was  touch- 
ing the  real  grief;  but  a  guess  that  could  be 
corrected  would  make  an  easier  channel  for 
confidence. 

"  No,  not  that,"  said  Mirah,  shaking  her  head 
gently.  "  I  have  been  a  little  disappointed  be- 
cause so  many  ladies  said  they  wanted  me  to  give 
them  or  their  daughters  lessons,  and  then  I  never 
heard  of  them  again.  But  perhaps  after  the  holi- 
days I  shall  teach  in  some  schools.  Besides,  you 
know,  I  am  as  rich  as  a  princess  now.  I  have  not 
touched  the  hundred  pounds  that  Mrs,  Klesmer 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  149 


gave  me ;  and  I  should  never  be  afraid  that  Ezra 
would  be  in  want  of  anything,  because  there  is 
Mr.  Deronda,  and  he  said,  '  It  is  the  chief  honour 
of  my  life  that  your  brother  will  share  anything 
with  me.'  Oh,  no!  Ezra  and  I  can  have  no  fears 
for  each  other  about  such  things  as  food  and 
clothing." 

"  But  there  is  some  other  fear  on  your  mind," 
said  Mrs.  Meyrick,  not  without  divination,  — 
"  a  fear  of  something  that  may  disturb  your 
peace?  Don't  be  forecasting  evil,  dear  child,  un- 
less it  is  what  you  can  guard  against.  Anxiety  is 
good  for  nothing  if  we  can't  turn  it  into  a  de- 
fence. But  there 's  no  defence  against  all  the 
things  that  might  be.  Have  you  any  more  rea- 
son for  being  anxious  now  than  you  had  a  month 
ago?" 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  said  Mirah.  "  I  have  kept  it 
from  Ezra.  I  have  not  dared  to  tell  him.  Pray 
forgive  me  that  I  can't  do  without  telling  you, 
I  have  more  reason  for  being  anxious.  It  is 
five  days  ago  now.  I  am  quite  sure  I  saw  my 
father." 

Mrs.  Meyrick  shrank  into  smaller  space, 
packing  her  arms  across  her  chest  and  leaning 
forward,  —  to  hinder  herself  from  pelting  that 
father  w^ith  her  worst  epithets. 

"  The  year  has  changed  him,"  Mirah  went  on. 
"  He  had  already  been  much  altered  and  worn 
in  the  time  before  I  left  him.  You  remember 
I  said  how  he  used  sometimes  to  cry.  He  was 
always  excited  one  way  or  the  other.  I  have  told 
Ezra  everything  that  I  told  you,  and  he  says  that 
my  father  had  taken  to  gambling,  which  makes 
people  easily  distressed  and  then  again  exalted. 


150         DANIEL  DERONDA 


And  now  —  it  was  only  a  moment  that  I  saw 
him  —  his  face  was  more  haggard,  and  his 
clothes  were  shabby.  He  was  with  a  much 
worse-looking  man,  who  carried  something,  and 
they  were  hurrying  along  after  an  omnibus." 

"  Well,  child,  he  did  not  see  you,  I  hope?  " 

"  No.  I  had  just  come  from  Mrs.  Ray- 
mond's, and  I  was  waiting  to  cross  near  the 
Marble  Arch.  Soon  he  was  on  the  omnibus  and 
gone  out  of  sight.  It  was  a  dreadful  moment. 
My  old  life  seemed  to  have  come  back  again,  and 
it  was  worse  than  it  had  ever  been  before.  And 
I  could  not  help  feeling  it  a  new  deliverance  that 
he  was  gone  out  of  sight  without  knowing  that 
I  was  there.  And  yet  it  hurt  me  that  I  was 
feeling  so,  —  it  seemed  hateful  in  me,  —  almost 
like  words  I  once  had  to  speak  in  a  play,  that 
'  I  had  warmed  my  hands  in  the  blood  of  my 
kindred.'  For  where  might  my  father  be  going? 
What  may  become  of  him?  And  his  having  a 
daughter  who  would  own  him  in  spite  of  all, 
might  have  hindered  the  worst.  Is  there  any 
pain  like  seeing  what  ought  to  be  the  best  things 
in  life  turned  into  the  worst?  All  those  opposite 
feelings  were  meeting  and  pressing  against  each 
other,  and  took  up  all  my  strength.  No  one 
could  act  that.  Acting  is  slow  and  poor  to  what 
we  go  through  within.  I  don't  know  how  I 
called  a  cab.  I  only  remember  that  I  was  in  it 
when  I  began  to  think,  '  I  cannot  tell  Ezra ; 
he  must  not  know.'  " 

"  You  are  afraid  of  grieving  him? "  Mrs. 
Meyrick  asked,  when  Mirah  had  paused  a  little. 

"  Yes,  —  and  there  is  something  more,"  said 
Mirah,  hesitatingly,  as  if  she  were  examining 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  151 


her  feeling  before  she  would  venture  to  speak  of 
it.  "I  want  to  tell  you;  I  could  not  tell  any 
one  else.  I  could  not  have  told  my  own  mother ; 
I  should  have  closed  it  up  before  her.  I  feel 
shame  for  my  father,  and  it  is  perhaps  strange, 
—  but  the  shame  is  greater  before  Ezra  than 
before  any  one  else  in  the  world.  He  desired  me 
to  tell  him  all  about  my  life,  and  I  obeyed  him. 
But  it  is  always  like  a  smart  to  me  to  know  that 
those  things  about  my  father  are  in  Ezra's  mind. 
And,  can  you  believe  it  ?  —  when  the  thought 
haunts  me  how  it  would  be  if  my  father  were  to 
come  and  show  himself  before  us  both,  what 
seems  as  if  it  would  scorch  me  most  is  seeing 
my  father  shrinking  before  Ezra.  That  is  the 
truth.  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  a  right  feel- 
ing. But  I  can't  help  thinking  that  I  would 
rather  try  to  maintain  my  father  in  secret,  and 
bear  a  great  deal  in  that  way,  if  I  could  hinder 
him  from  meeting  my  brother." 

"  You  must  not  encourage  that  feeling, 
Mirah,"  said  Mrs.  Meyrick,  hastily.  "  It  would 
be  very  dangerous;  it  would  be  wrong.  You 
must  not  have  concealments  of  that  sort." 

"  But  ought  I  now  to  tell  Ezra  that  I  have 
seen  my  father?  "  said  Mirah,  with  deprecation 
in  her  tone. 

"  No,"  Mrs.  Meyrick  answered  dubitatively. 
"  I  don't  know  that  it  is  necessary  to  do  that. 
Your  father  may  go  away  with  the  birds.  It 
is  not  clear  that  he  came  after  you;  you  may 
never  see  him  again.  And  then  your  brother  will 
have  been  spared  a  useless  anxiety.  But  promise 
me  that  if  your  father  sees  you,  —  gets  hold  of 
you  in  any  way  again,  —  you  will  let  us  all 


152  DANIEL  DERONDA 


know.  Promise  me  that  solemnly,  Mirah.  I 
have  a  right  to  ask  it." 

Mirah  reflected  a  little,  then  leaned  forward 
to  put  her  hands  in  Mrs.  Meyrick's,  and  said, 
"  Since  yoQ  ask  it,  I  do  promise.  I  will  bear 
this  feeling  of  shame.  I  have  been  so  long  used 
to  think  that  I  must  bear  that  sort  of  inward 
pain.  But  the  shame  for  my  father  burns  me 
more  when  I  think  of  his  meeting  Ezra."  She 
was  silent  a  moment  or  two,  and  then  said,  in 
a  new  tone  of  yearning  compassion,  "  And  we 
are  his  children,  —  and  he  was  once  young  like 
us,  —  and  my  mother  loved  him.  Oh !  I  cannot 
help  seeing  it  all  close,  and  it  hurts  me  like 
a  cruelty." 

Mirah  shed  no  tears:  the  discipline  of  her 
whole  life  had  been  against  indulgence  in  such 
manifestation,  which  soon  falls  under  the  con- 
trol of  strong  motives;  but  it  seemed  that  the 
more  intense  expression  of  sorrow  had  entered 
into  her  voice.  Mrs.  Meyrick,  with  all  her  quick- 
ness and  loving  insight,  did  not  quite  under- 
stand that  filial  feeling  in  Mirah  which  had 
active  roots  deep  below  her  indignation  for  the 
worst  offences.  She  could  conceive  that  a 
mother  would  have  a  clinging  pity  and  shame 
for  a  reprobate  son,  but  she  was  out  of  patience 
with  what  she  held  an  exaggerated  suscepti- 
bility on  behalf  of  this  father,  whose  reappear- 
ance inclined  her  to  wish  him  under  the  care  of 
a  turnkey.  Mirah's  promise,  however,  was  some 
security  against  her  weakness. 

That  incident  was  the  only  reason  that  Mirah 
herself  could  have  stated  for  the  hidden  sadness 
which  Hans  had  divined.    Of  one  element  in 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  153 


her  changed  mood  she  could  have  given  no  defi- 
nite account:  it  was  something  as  dim  as  the 
sense  of  approaching  weather-change,  and  had 
extremely  slight  external  promptings,  such  as 
we  are  often  ashamed  to  find  all  we  can  allege 
in  support  of  the  busy  constructions  that  go  on 
within  us,  not  only  without  effort  but  even 
against  it,  under  the  influence  of  any  blind 
emotional  stirring.  Perhaps  the  first  leaven  of 
uneasiness  was  laid  by  Gwendolen's  behaviour 
on  that  visit  which  was  entirely  superfluous  as 
a  means  of  engaging  Mirah  to  sing,  and  could 
have  no  other  motive  than  the  excited  and 
strange  questioning  about  Deronda.  Mirah  had 
instinctively  kept  the  visit  a  secret,  but  the  active 
remembrance  of  it  had  raised  a  new  suscepti- 
bility in  her,  and  made  her  alive  as  she  had  never 
been  before  to  the  relations  Deronda  must  have 
with  that  society  which  she  herself  was  getting 
frequent  glimpses  of  without  belonging  to  it. 
Her  peculiar  life  and  education  had  produced  in 
her  an  extraordinary  mixture  of  unworldliness 
with  knowledge  of  the  world's  evil,  and  even  this 
knowledge  was  a  strange  blending  of  direct  ob- 
servation with  the  effects  of  reading  and  theatri- 
cal study.  Her  memory  was  furnished  with 
abundant  passionate  situation  and  intrigue, 
which  she  never  made  emotionally  her  own,  but 
felt  a  repelled  aloofness  from,  as  she  had  done 
from  the  actual  life  around  her.  Some  of  that 
imaginative  knowledge  began  now  to  weave  it- 
self around  Mrs.  Grandcourt;  and  though 
Mirah  would  admit  no  position  likely  to  affect 
her  reverence  for  Deronda,  she  could  not  avoid 
a  new  painfully  vivid  association  of  his  general 


154  DANIEL  DERONDA 


life  with  a  world  away  from  her  own,  where 
there  might  be  some  involvement  of  his  feeling 
and  action  with  a  woman  like  Gwendolen,  who 
was  increasingly  repugnant  to  her,  —  increas- 
ingly, even  after  she  had  ceased  to  see  her;  for 
liking  and  disliking  can  grow  in  meditation  as 
fast  as  in  the  more  immediate  kind  of  presence. 
Any  disquietude  consciously  due  to  the  idea 
that  Deronda's  deepest  care  might  be  for  some- 
thing remote  not  only  from  herself  but  even 
from  his  friendship  for  her  brother,  she  would 
have  checked  with  rebuking  questions,  —  What 
was  she  but  one  who  had  shared  his  generous 
kindness  with  many  others?  and  his  attachment 
to  her  brother,  was  it  not  begun  late  to  be  soon 
ended?  Other  ties  had  come  before,  and  others 
would  remain  after  this  had  been  cut  by  swift- 
coming  death.  But  her  uneasiness  had  not 
reached  that  point  of  self -recognition  in  which 
she  would  have  been  ashamed  of  it  as  an  indirect, 
presumptuous  claim  on  Deronda's  feeling. 
That  she  or  any  one  else  should  think  of  him 
as  her  possible  lover  was  a  conception  which 
had  never  entered  her  mind;  indeed  it  was 
equally  out  of  the  question  with  Mrs.  Meyrick 
and  the  girls,  who  with  Mirah  herself  regarded 
his  intervention  in  her  life  as  something  excep- 
tional, and  were  so  impressed  by  his  mission  as 
her  deliverer  and  guardian  that  they  would  have 
held  it  an  offence  to  hint  at  his  holding  any  other 
relation  towards  her:  a  point  of  view  which 
Hans  also  had  readily  adopted.  It  is  a  little 
hard  upon  some  men  that  they  appear  to  sink 
for  us  in  becoming  lovers.  But  precisely  to  this 
innocence  of  the  Meyricks  was  owing  the  dis- 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  155 


turbance  of  Mirah's  unconsciousness.  The  first 
occasion  could  hardly  have  been  more  trivial, 
but  it  prepared  her  emotive  nature  for  a  deeper 
effect  from  what  happened  afterwards. 

It  was  when  Anna  Gascoigne,  visiting  the 
Meyricks,  was  led  to  speak  of  her  cousinship 
with  Gwendolen.  The  visit  had  been  arranged 
that  Anna  might  see  Mirah ;  the  three  girls  were 
at  home  with  her  mother,  and  there  was  natu- 
rally a  flux  of  talk  among  six  feminine  creatures, 
free  from  the  presence  of  a  distorting  male 
standard.  Anna  Gascoigne  felt  herself  much 
at  home  with  the  Meyrick  girls,  w^ho  knew  what 
it  was  to  have  a  brother,  and  to  be  generally  re- 
garded as  of  minor  importance  in  the  world; 
and  she  had  told  Rex  that  she  thought  the  Uni- 
versity very  nice,  because  brothers  made  friends 
there  whose  families  were  not  rich  and  grand, 
and  yet  (like  the  University)  were  very  nice. 
The  Meyricks  seemed  to  her  almost  alarmingly 
clever,  and  she  consulted  them  much  on  the  best 
mode  of  teaching  Lotta,  confiding  to  them  that 
she  herself  was  the  least  clever  of  her  family. 
Mirah  had  lately  come  in,  and  there  was  a  com- 
plete bouquet  of  young  faces  round  the  tea- 
table,  —  Hafiz,  seated  a  little  aloft  with  large 
eyes  on  the  alert,  regarding  the  whole  scene  as 
an  apparatus  for  supplying  his  allowance  of 
milk. 

"  Think  of  our  surprise,  Mirah,"  said  Kate. 
"  We  were  speaking  of  Mr.  Deronda  and  the 
MaUingers,  and  it  turns  out  that  Miss  Gas- 
coigne knows  them." 

"  I  only  know  about  them,"  said  Anna,  a 
little  flushed  with  excitement,  what  she  had 


156 


DANIEL  DERONDA 


heard  and  now  saw  of  the  lovely  Jewess  being 
an  almost  startling  noveltj^  to  her.  I  have  not 
even  seen  them.  But  some  months  ago,  my 
cousin  married  Sir  Hugo  JNIallinger's  nephew, 
jNIr.  Grandcourt,  who  lived  in  Sir  Hugo's  place 
at  Diplow,  near  us." 

"There!"  exclaimed  Mab,  clasping  her 
hands.  "  Something  must  come  of  that.  Mrs. 
Grandcourt,  the  Vandyke  duchess,  is  your 
cousin? " 

"  Oh,  yes;  I  was  her  bridesmaid,"  said  Anna. 
"  Her  mamma  and  mine  are  sisters.  My  aunt 
was  much  richer  before  last  year,  but  then  she 
and  mamma  lost  all  their  fortune.  Papa  is  a 
clergyman,  you  know,  so  it  makes  very  little 
difference  to  us,  except  that  we  keep  no  car- 
riage, and  have  no  dinner-parties,  —  and  I  like 
it  better.  But  it  was  very  sad  for  poor  Aunt 
Davilow,  for  she  could  not  live  with  us,  because 
she  has  four  daughters  besides  Gwendolen;  but 
then,  when  she  married  Mr.  Grandcourt,  it  did 
not  signify  so  much,  because  of  his  being  so 
rich." 

"  Oh,  this  finding  out  relationships  is  delight- 
ful!" said  Mab.  "It  is  like  a  Chinese  puzzle 
that  one  has  to  fit  together.  I  feel  sure  some- 
thing wonderful  may  be  made  of  it,  but  I  can't 
tell  what." 

"Dear  me,  Mab!"  said  Amy,  "relationships 
must  branch  out.  The  only  difference  is,  that 
we  happen  to  know  some  of  the  people 
concerned.  Such  things  are  going  on  every 
day." 

"  And  pray,  Am}^  why  do  you  insist  on  the 
number  nine  being  so  wonderful?  "  said  Mab. 


\ 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  157 


"  I  am  sure  that  is  happening  every  day.  Never 
mind,  Miss  Gascoigne ;  please  go  on.  And  Mr. 
Deronda  —  have  you  never  seen  Mr.  Deronda? 
You  must  bring  him  in." 

"  No,  I  have  not  seen  him,"  said  Anna;  "  but 
he  was  at  Diplow  before  my  cousin  was  married, 
and  I  have  heard  my  aunt  speaking  of  him  to 
papa.  She  said  what  you  have  been  saying  about 
him,  —  only  not  so  much :  I  mean,  about  Mr. 
Deronda  living  with  Sir  Hugo  Mallinger,  and 
being  so  nice,  she  thought.  We  talk  a  great  deal 
about  every  one  who  comes  near  Pennicote,  be- 
cause it  is  so  seldom  there  is  any  one  new.  But 
I  remember,  when  I  asked  Gwendolen  what  she 
thought  of  Mr.  Deronda,  she  said,  '  Don't  men- 
tion it,  Anna;  but  I  think  his  hair  is  dark.' 
That  wajs  her  droll  way  of  answering;  she  was 
always  so  lively.  It  is  really  rather  wonderful 
that  I  should  come  to  hear  so  much  about  him, 
all  through  Mr.  Hans  knowing  Rex,  and  then 
my  having  the  pleasure  of  knowing  you,"  Anna 
ended,  looking  at  Mrs.  Meyrick  with  a  shy 
grace. 

"The  pleasure  is  on  our  side  too;  but  the 
wonder  would  have  been  if  you  had  come  to  this 
house  without  hearing  of  Mr.  Deronda,  — 
would  n't  it,  Mirah?  "  said  Mrs.  Meyrick. 

Mirah  smiled  acquiescently,  but  had  nothing 
to  say.  A  confused  discontent  took  possession 
of  her  at  the  mingling  of  names  and  images  to 
which  she  had  been  listening. 

"  My  son  calls  Mrs.  Grandcourt  the  Vandyke 
duchess,"  continued  Mrs.  Meyrick,  turning 
again  to  Anna;  "  he  thinks  her  so  striking  and 
picturesque." 


158  DANIEL  DERONDA 


Yes,"  said  Anna.  "  Gwendolen  was  always 
so  beautiful,  —  people  fell  dreadfully  in  love 
with  her.  I  thought  it  a  pity,  because  it  made 
them  unhappy." 

"  And  how  do  you  like  Mr.  Grandcourt,  the 
happy  lover?  "  said  Mrs.  Meyrick,  who  in  her 
way  was  as  much  interested  as  Mab  in  the  hints 
she  had  been  hearing  of  vicissitude  in  the  life 
of  a  widow  with  daughters. 

"  Papa  approved  of  Gwendolen's  accepting 
him,  and  my  aunt  says  he  is  very  generous," 
said  Anna,  beginning  with  a  virtuous  intention 
of  repressing  her  own  sentiments;  but  then, 
unable  to  resist  a  rare  occasion  for  speaking 
them  freely,  she  went  on,  —  "  else  I  should  have 
thought  he  was  not  very  nice,  —  rather  proud, 
and  not  at  all  lively,  like  Gwendolen.  I  should 
have  thought  some  one  younger  and  more  lively 
would  have  suited  her  better.  But,  perhaps, 
having  a  brother  who  seems  to  us  better  than 
any  one  makes  us  think  worse  of  others." 

"  Wait  till  you  see  Mr.  Deronda,"  said  Mab, 
nodding  significantly.  "  Nobody's  brother  will 
do  after  him." 

"  Our  brothers  must  do  for  people's  hus- 
bands," said  Kate,  curtly,  "  because  they  will 
not  get  Mr.  Deronda.  No  woman  will  do  for 
him  to  marry." 

"  No  woman  ought  to  want  him  to  marry 
her,"  said  Mab,  with  indignation.  "  I  never 
should.  Fancy  finding  out  that  he  had  a  tailor's 
bill,  and  used  boot-hooks,  like  Hans.  Who  ever 
thought  of  his  marrying?  " 

"  I  have,"  said  Kate.  "  When  I  drew  a  wed- 
ding for  a  frontispiece  to  '  Hearts  and  Dia- 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  159 


monds,'  I  made  a  sort  of  likeness  of  him  for  the 
bridegroom,  and  I  went  about  looking  for  a 
grand  woman  who  would  do  for  his  countess, 
but  I  saw  none  that  would  not  be  poor  creatures 
by  the  side  of  him." 

"  You  should  have  seen  this  Mrs.  Grandcourt 
then,"  said  Mrs.  Meyrick.  "  Hans  says  that  she 
and  Mr.  Deronda  set  each  other  off  when  they 
are  side  by  side.  She  is  tall  and  fair.  But  you 
know  her,  Mirah,  —  you  can  always  say  some- 
thing descriptive.  What  do  you  think  of  Mrs. 
Grandcourt?  " 

"  I  think  she  is  like  the  Princess  of  Eboli  in 
'  Don  Carlos,'  "  said  Mirah,  with  a  quick  inten- 
sity. She  was  pursuing  an  association  in  her 
own  mind  not  intelligible  to  her  hearers,  —  an 
association  with  a  certain  actress  as  well  as  the 
part  she  represented. 

"  Your  comparison  is  a  riddle  for  me,  my 
dear,"  said  Mrs.  Meyrick,  smiling. 

"  You  said  that  Mrs.  Grandcourt  was  tall  and 
fair,"  continued  Mirah,  slightly  paler.  "  That 
is  quite  true." 

Mrs.  Meyrick's  quick  eye  and  ear  detected 
something  unusual,  but  immediately  explained 
it  to  herself.  Fine  ladies  had  often  wounded 
Mirah  by  caprices  of  manner  and  intention. 

"  Mrs.  Grandcourt  had  thought  of  having 
lessons  from  Mirah,"  she  said,  turning  to  Anna. 
"  But  many  have  talked  of  having  lessons,  and 
then  have  found  no  time.  Fashionable  ladies 
have  too  much  work  to  do." 

And  the  chat  went  on  without  further  insist- 
ence on  the  Princess  of  Eboli.  That  comparison 
escaped  Mirah's  lips  under  the  urgency  of  a 


160         DANIEL  DERONDA 


pang  unlike  anything  she  had  felt  before.  The 
conversation  from  the  beginning  had  revived 
unpleasant  impressions,  and  Mrs.  Meyrick's 
suggestion  of  Gwendolen's  figure  by  the  side 
of  Deronda's  had  the  stinging  effect  of  a  voice 
outside  her,  confirming  her  secret  conviction  that 
this  tall  and  fair  woman  had  some  hold  on  his 
lot.  For  a  long  while  afterwards  she  felt  as 
if  she  had  had  a  jarring  shock  through  her 
frame. 

In  the  evening,  putting  her  cheek  against  her 
brother's  shoulder  as  she  was  sitting  by  him, 
while  he  sat  propped  up  in  bed  under  a  new 
difficulty  of  breathing,  she  said,  — 

"  Ezra,  does  it  ever  hurt  your  love  for  Mr. 
Deronda  that  so  much  of  his  life  v^sls  all  hidden 
away  from  you,  —  that  he  is  amongst  persons 
and  cares  about  persons  who  are  all  so  unlike 
us,  —  I  mean,  unlike  you?  " 

"  No,  assuredly  no,"  said  Mordecai.  "  Rath- 
er, it  is  a  precious  thought  to  me  that  he  has 
a  preparation  which  I  lacked,  and  is  an  accom- 
plished Egyptian."  Then,  recollecting  that  his 
words  had  a  reference  which  his  sister  must  not 
yet  understand,  he  added:  "  I  have  the  more 
to  give  him,  since  his  treasure  differs  from  mine. 
That  is  a  blessedness  in  friendship." 

Mirah  mused  a  little. 

"  Still,"  she  said,  "  it  would  be  a  trial  to  your 
love  for  him  if  that  other  part  of  his  life  were 
like  a  crowd  in  which  he  had  got  entangled,  so 
that  he  was  carried  away  from  you,  —  I  mean 
in  his  thoughts,  and  not  merely  carried  out  of 
sight  as  he  is  now,  —  and  not  merely  for  a  little 
while,  but  continually.    How  should  you  bear 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  161 


that?  Our  religion  commands  us  to  bear.  But 
how  should  you  bear  it?  " 

"  Not  well,  my  sister,  —  not  well;  but  it  will 
never  happen,"  said  Mordecai,  looking  at  her 
with  a  tender  smile.  He  thought  that  her  heart 
needed  comfort  on  his  account. 

Mirah  said  no  more.  She  mused  over  the  dif- 
ference between  her  own  state  of  mind  and  her 
brother's,  and  felt  her  comparative  pettiness. 
Why  could  she  not  be  completely  satisfied  with 
what  satisfied  his  larger  judgment?  She  gave 
herself  no  fuller  reason  than  a  painful  sense  of 
unfitness,  —  in  what  ?  Airy  possibilities  to 
which  she  could  give  no  outline,  but  to  which 
one  name  and  one  figure  gave  the  wandering  per- 
sistency of  a  blot  in  her  vision.  Here  lay  the 
vaguer  source  of  the  hidden  sadness  rendered 
noticeable  to  Hans  by  some  diminution  of  that 
sweet  ease,  that  ready  joyousness  of  response  in 
her  speech  and  smile,  which  had  come  with  the 
new  sense  of  freedom  and  safety,  and  had  made 
her  presence  like  the  freshly  opened  daisies  and 
clear  bird-notes  after  the  rain.  She  herself  re- 
garded her  uneasiness  as  a  sort  of  ingratitude 
and  dulness  of  sensibility  towards  the  great 
things  that  had  been  given  her  in  her  new  life; 
and  whenever  she  threw  more  energy  than  usual 
into  her  singing,  it  was  the  energy  of  indigna- 
tion against  the  shallowness  of  her  own  content. 
In  that  mood  she  once  said:  "  Shall  I  tell  you 
what  is  the  difference  between  you  and  me, 
Ezra?  You  are  a  spring  in  the  drought,  and 
I  am  an  acorn-cup;  the  waters  of  heaven  fill 
me,  but  the  least  little  shake  leaves  me  empty." 

"  Why,  what  has  shaken  thee?  "  said  Mordecai. 

VOL.  XIV —  11 


162  DANIEL  DERONDA 


He  fell  into  this  antique  form  of  speech  habitu- 
ally in  talking  to  his  sister  and  to  the  Cohen 
children. 

"Thoughts,"  said  Mirah;  "thoughts  that 
come  like  the  breeze  and  shake  me,  —  bad  peo- 
ple, wrong  things,  misery,  —  and  how  they 
might  touch  our  life." 

"  We  must  take  our  portion,  Mirah.  It  is 
there.  On  whose  shoulder  would  we  lay  it,  that 
we  might  be  free?  " 

The  one  voluntary  sign  that  she  made  of  her 
inward  care  was  this  distant  allusion. 


CHAPTER  IV 


My  desolation  does  begin  to  make 
A  better  life. 

Shakespeare:  Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

BEFORE  Deronda  was  summoned  to  a  sec- 
ond interview  with  his  mother,  a  day  had 
passed  in  which  she  had  only  sent  him  a 
message  to  say  that  she  was  not  yet  well  enough 
to  receive  him  again;  but  on  the  third  morning 
he  had  a  note  saying,  "  I  leave  to-day.  Come 
and  see  me  at  once." 

He  was  shown  into  the  same  room  as  before; 
but  it  was  much  darkened  with  blinds  and  cur- 
tains. The  Princess  was  not  there,  but  she  pres- 
ently entered,  dressed  in  a  loose  wrap  of  some 
soft  silk,  in  colour  a  dusky  orange,  her  head  again 
with  black  lace  floating  about  it,  her  arms  show- 
ing themselves  bare  from  under  her  wide  sleeves. 
Her  face  seemed  even  more  impressive  in  the 
sombre  light,  the  eyes  larger,  the  lines  more 
vigorous.  You  might  have  imagined  her  a  sor- 
ceress who  would  stretch  forth  her  wonderful 
hand  and  arm  to  mix  youth-potions  for  others, 
but  scorned  to  mix  them  for  herself,  having  had 
enough  of  youth. 

She  put  her  arms  on  her  son's  shoulders  at 
once,  and  kissed  him  on  both  cheeks,  then  seated 
herself  among  her  cushions  with  an  air  of  as- 
sured firmness  and  dignity  unlike  her  fitfulness 
in  their  first  interview,  and  told  Deronda  to  sit 


164  DANIEL  DERONDA 


down  by  her.  He  obeyed,  saying,  "  You  are 
quite  relieved  now,  I  trust?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  at  ease  again.  Is  there  anything 
more  that  you  would  like  to  ask  me?  "  she  said, 
with  the  manner  of  a  queen  rather  than  of  a 
mother. 

"Can  I  find  the  house  in  Genoa  where  you 
used  to  live  with  my  grandfather?"  said 
Deronda. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  with  a  deprecating  move- 
ment of  her  arms;  "  it  is  pulled  down,  —  not  to 
be  found.  But  about  our  family,  and  where  my 
father  lived  at  various  times,  —  you  will  find  all 
that  among  the  papers  in  the  chest,  better  than 
I  can  tell  you.  My  father,  I  told  you,  was  a  phy- 
sician. My  mother  was  a  Morteira.  I  used  to 
hear  all  those  things  without  listening.  You 
will  find  them  all.  I  was  born  amongst  them 
without  my  will.  I  banished  them  as  soon  as  I 
could." 

Deronda  tried  to  hide  his  pained  feeling,  and 
said,  "  Anything  else  that  I  should  desire  to 
know  from  you  could  only  be  what  it  is  some 
satisfaction  to  your  own  feeling  to  tell  me." 

"  I  think  I  have  told  you  everything  that  could 
be  demanded  of  me,"  said  the  Princess,  looking 
coldly  meditative.  It  seemed  as  if  she  had  ex- 
hausted her  emotion  in  their  .former  interview. 
The  fact  was,  she  had  said  to  herself :  "  I  have 
done  it  all.  I  have  confessed  all.  I  will  not  go 
through  it  again.  I  will  save  myself  from  agita- 
tion."  And  she  was  acting  out  that  theme. 

But  to  Deronda's  nature  the  moment  was 
cruel:  it  made  the  filial  yearning  of  his  life  a 
disappointed  pilgrimage  to  a  shrine  where  there 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  165 


were  no  longer  the  symbols  of  sacredness.  It 
seemed  that  all  the  woman  lacking  in  her  was 
present  in  him  as  he  said,  with  some  tremor  in  his 
voice,  — 

"  Then  are  we  to  part,  and  I  never  be  any- 
thing to  you? " 

"  It  is  better  so,"  said  the  Princess,  in  a  softer, 
mellower  voice.  "  There  could  be  nothing  but 
hard  duty  for  you,  even  if  it  were  possible  for  you 
to  take  the  place  of  my  son.  You  would  not  love 
me.  Don't  deny  it,"  she  said  abruptly,  putting 
up  her  hand.  "  I  know  what  is  the  truth.  You 
don't  like  what  I  did.  You  are  angry  with  me. 
You  think  I  robbed  you  of  something.  You  are 
on  your  grandfather's  side,  and  you  will  always 
have  a  condemnation  of  me  in  your  heart." 

Deronda  felt  himself  under  a  ban  of  silence. 
He  rose  from  his  seat  by  her,  preferring  to  stand, 
if  he  had  to  obey  that  imperious  prohibition  of 
any  tenderness.  But  his  mother  now  looked 
up  at  him  with  a  new  admiration  in  her  glance, 
saying,  — 

"  You  are  wrong  to  be  angry  with  me.  You 
are  the  better  for  what  I  did."  After  pausing  a 
little,  she  added  abruptly,  "  And  now  tell  me 
what  you  shall  do." 

"  Do  you  mean  now,  immediately,"  said  De- 
ronda; "  or  as  to  the  course  of  my  future  life?  " 

"  I  mean  in  the  future.  What  difference  will 
it  make  to  you  that  I  have  told  you  about  your 
birth?" 

"  A  very  great  difference,"  said  Deronda,  em- 
phatically. "  I  can  hardly  think  of  anything 
that  would  make  a  greater  difference." 

"  What  shall  you  do,  then?  "  said  the  Princess, 


166  DANIEL  DERONDA 


with  more  sharpness.  "  Make  yourself  just  like 
your  grandfather,  —  be  what  he  wished  you,  — 
turn  yourself  into  a  Jew  like  him?  " 

"  That  is  impossible.  The  effect  of  my  edu- 
cation can  never  be  done  away  with.  The  Chris- 
tian sympathies  in  which  my  mind  was  reared 
can  never  die  out  of  me,"  said  Deronda,  with  in- 
creasing tenacity  of  tone.  "  But  I  consider  it 
my  duty  —  it  is  the  impulse  of  my  feeling  —  to 
identify  myself,  as  far  as  possible,  with  my  he- 
reditary people,  and  if  I  can  see  any  work  to  be 
done  for  them  that  I  can  give  my  soul  and  hand 
to,  I  shall  choose  to  do  it." 

His  mother  had  her  eyes  fixed  on  him  with  a 
wondering  speculation,  examining  his  face  as  if 
she  thought  that  by  close  attention  she  could  read 
a  difficult  language  there.  He  bore  her  gaze 
very  firmly,  sustained  by  a  resolute  opposition, 
which  was  the  expression  of  his  fullest  self.  She 
bent  towards  him  a  little  and  said,  with  a  decisive 
emphasis,  — 

"  You  are  in  love  with  a  Jewess." 

Deronda  coloured  and  said,  "  My  reasons 
would  be  independent  of  any  such  fact." 

"  I  know  better.  I  have  seen  what  men  are," 
said  the  Princess,  peremptorily.  "  Tell  me  the 
truth.  She  is  a  Jewess  who  will  not  accept  any 
one  but  a  Jew.  There  are  a  few  such,"  she 
added,  with  a  touch  of  scorn. 

Deronda  had  that  objection  to  answer  which 
we  all  have  knoTvn  in  speaking  to  those  who  are 
too  certain  of  their  own  fixed  interpretations  to 
be  enlightened  by  anything  we  may  say.  But  be- 
sides this,  the  point  immediately  in  question  was 
one  on  which  he  felt  a  repugnance  either  to  deny 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  167 


or  affirm.  He  remained  silent,  and  she  presently 
said,  — 

"  You  love  her  as  your  father  loved  me,  and 
she  draws  you  after  her  as  I  drew  him." 

Those  words  touched  Deronda's  filial  imagina- 
tion, and  some  tenderness  in  his  glance  was  taken 
by  his  mother  as  an  assent.  She  went  on  with 
rising  passion.  "  But  I  was  leading  him  the 
other  way.  And  now  your  grandfather  is  get- 
ting his  revenge." 

"  Mother,"  said  Deronda,  remonstrantly, 
don't  let  us  think  of  it  in  that  way.  I  will  admit 
that  there  may  come  some  benefit  from  the  edu- 
cation you  chose  for  me.  I  prefer  cherishing  the 
benefit  with  gratitude,  to  dwelling  with  resent- 
ment on  the  injury.  I  think  it  would  have  been 
right  that  I  should  have  been  brought  up  with  the 
consciousness  that  I  was  a  Jew,  but  it  must  al- 
ways have  been  a  good  to  me  to  have  as  wide  an 
instruction  and  sympathy  as  possible.  And  now, 
you  have  restored  me  my  inheritance,  —  events 
have  brought  a  fuller  restitution  than  you  could 
have  made,  —  you  have  been  saved  from  robbing 
my  people  of  my  service  and  me  of  my  duty: 
can  you  not  bring  your  whole  soul  to  consent  to 
this?" 

Deronda  paused  in  his  pleading:  his  mother 
looked  at  him  listeningly,  as  if  the  cadence  of 
his  voice  were  taking  her  ear,  yet  she  shook 
her  head  slowly.  He  began  again  even  more 
urgently. 

"  You  have  told  me  that  you  sought  what  you 
held  the  best  for  me :  open  your  heart  to  relent- 
ing and  love  towards  my  grandfather,  who 
sought  what  he  held  the  best  for  you." 


168  DANIEL  DERONDA 

"  Not  for  me,  no,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head 
with  more  absolute  denial,  and  folding  her  arms 
tightly.  "  I  tell  you,  he  never  thought  of  his 
daughter  except  as  an  instrument.  Because  I 
had  wants  outside  his  purpose,  I  was  to  be  put  in 
a  frame  and  tortured.  If  that  is  the  right  law  for 
the  world,  I  will  not  say  that  I  love  it.  If  my 
acts  were  wrong,  —  if  it  is  God  who  is  exacting 
from  me  that  I  should  deliver  up  what  I  with- 
held, —  who  is  punishing  me  because  I  deceived 
my  father  and  did  not  warn  him  that  I  should 
contradict  his  trust,  —  well,  I  have  told  every- 
thing. I  have  done  what  I  could.  And  your 
soul  consents.  That  is  enough.  I  have  after  all 
been  the  instrument  my  father  wanted.  — '  I 
desire  a  grandson  who  shall  have  a  true  Jewish 
heart.  Every  Jew  should  rear  his  family  as  if 
he  hoped  that  a  Deliverer  might  spring  from 
it.'  " 

In  uttering  these  last  sentences  the  Princess 
narrowed  her  eyes,  waved  her  head  up  and  down, 
and  spoke  slowly  with  a  new  kind  of  chest-voice, 
as  if  she  were  quoting  imwillingly. 

"  Were  those  my  grandfather's  words?  "  said 
Deronda. 

"  Yes,  yes ;  and  you  will  find  them  written.  I 
wanted  to  thwart  him,"  said  the  Princess,  with  a 
sudden  outburst  of  the  passion  she  had  shown  in 
the  former  interview.  Then  she  added  more 
slowly,  "  You  would  have  me  love  what  I  have 
hated  from  the  time  I  was  so  high,"  —  here  she 
held  her  left  hand  a  yard  from  the  floor.  — 
"  That  can  never  be.  But  what  does  it  matter? 
his  yoke  has  been  on  me,  whether  I  loved  it  or  not. 
You  are  the  grandson  he  wanted.   You  speak  as 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  169 


men  do,  —  as  if  you  felt  yourself  wise.  What 
does  it  all  mean?  " 

Her  tone  was  abrupt  and  scornful.  Deronda, 
in  his  pained  feeling,  and  under  the  solemn  ur- 
gency of  the  moment,  had  to  keep  a  clutching  re- 
membrance of  their  relationship,  lest  his  words 
should  become  cruel.  He  began  in  a  deep 
entreating  tone. 

"  Mother,  don't  say  that  I  feel  myself  wise. 
We  are  set  in  the  midst  of  difficulties.  I  see  no 
other  way  to  get  any  clearness  than  by  being 
truthful,  —  not  by  keeping  back  facts  which  may 

—  which  should  carry  obligation  with  them,  — 
which  should  make  the  only  guidance  towards 
duty.  No  wonder  if  such  facts  come  to  reveal 
themselves  in  spite  of  concealments.  The  ef- 
fects prepared  by  generations  are  likely  to 
triumph  over  a  contrivance  which  would  bend 
them  all  to  the  satisfaction  of  self.  Your  will 
was  strong,  but  my  grandfather's  trust  which 
you  accepted  and  did  not  fulfil  —  what  you  call 
his  yoke  —  is  the  expression  of  something 
stronger,  with  deeper,  farther-spreading  roots, 
knit  into  the  foundations  of  sacredness  for  all 
men.   You  renounced  me  —  you  still  banish  me 

—  as  a  son,"  —  there  was  an  involuntary  move- 
ment of  indignation  in  Deronda's  voice,  —  "  but 
that  stronger  Something  has  determined  that  I 
shall  be  all  the  more  the  grandson  whom  also  you 
willed  to  annihilate." 

His  mother  was  watching  him  fixedly,  and 
again  her  face  gathered  admiration.  After  a 
moment's  silence  she  said,  in  a  low  persuasive 
tone,  — 

"Sit  down  again;"  and  he  obeyed,  placing 


170         DANIEL  DERONDA 


himself  beside  her.  She  laid  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder  and  went  on. 

"  You  rebuke  me.  Well,  I  am  the  loser.  And 
you  are  angry  because  I  banish  you.  What 
could  you  do  for  me  but  weary  your  own  pa- 
tience? Your  mother  is  a  shattered  woman. 
My  sense  of  life  is  little  more  than  a  sense  of  what 
was,  —  except  when  the  pain  is  present.  You 
reproach  me  that  I  parted  with  you.  I  had 
joy  enough  without  you  then.  Now  you  are 
come  back  to  me,  and  I  cannot  make  you  a  joy. 
Have  you  the  cursing  spirit  of  the  Jew  in  you? 
Are  you  not  able  to  forgive  me?  Shall  you  be 
glad  to  think  that  I  am  punished  because  I  was 
not  a  Jewish  mother  to  you?  " 

"  How  can  you  ask  me  that?  "  said  Deronda, 
remonstrantly.  "  Have  I  not  besought  you  that 
I  might  now  at  least  be  a  son  to  you?  My  grief 
is  that  you  have  declared  me  helpless  to  comfort 
you.  I  would  give  up  much  that  is  dear  for  the 
sake  of  soothing  your  anguish." 

"  You  shall  give  up  nothing,"  said  his  mother, 
with  the  hurry  of  agitation.  "  You  shall  be 
happy.  You  shall  let  me  think  of  you  as  happy. 
I  shall  have  done  you  no  harm.  You  have  no 
reason  to  curse  me.  You  shall  feel  for  me  as  they 
feel  for  the  dead  whom  they  say  prayers  for,  — 
you  shall  long  that  I  may  be  freed  from  all  suf- 
fering, —  from  all  punishment.  And  I  shall  see 
you  instead  of  always  seeing  your  grandfather. 
Will  any  harm  come  to  me  because  I  broke  his 
trust  in  the  daylight  after  he  was  gone  into  dark- 
ness? I  cannot  tell:  if  you  think  Kaddish  will 
help  me,  —  say  it,  say  it.  You  will  come  be- 
tween me  and  the  dead.    When  I  am  in  your 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  171 


mind,  you  will  look  as  you  do  now,  —  always  as 
if  you  were  a  tender  son,  —  always  —  as  if  I  had 
been  a  tender  mother." 

She  seemed  resolved  that  her  agitation  should 
not  conquer  her,  but  he  felt  her  hand  trembling 
on  his  shoulder.  Deep,  deep  compassion  hemmed 
in  all  words.  With  a  face  of  beseeching  he  put 
his  arm  round  her  and  pressed  her  head  ten- 
derly under  his.  They  sat  so  for  some  moments. 
Then  she  lifted  her  head  again  and  rose  from 
her  seat  with  a  great  sigh,  as  if  in  that  breath  she 
were  dismissing  a  weight  of  thoughts.  Deronda, 
standing  in  front  of  her,  felt  that  the  parting  was 
near.  But  one  of  her  swift  alternations  had 
come  upon  his  mother. 

"  Is  she  beautiful?  "  she  said  abruptly. 

"  Who?  "  said  Deronda,  changing  colour. 

"  The  woman  you  love." 

It  was  not  a  moment  for  deliberate  explana- 
tion.  He  was  obliged  to  say,  "  Yes." 
"Not  ambitious?" 
"  No,  I  think  not." 

"  Not  one  who  must  have  a  path  of  her 
own?  " 

"  I  think  her  nature  is  not  given  to  make  great 
claims." 

"  She  is  not  like  that?  "  said  the  Princess,  tak- 
ing from  her  wallet  a  miniature  with  jewels  round 
it,  and  holding  it  before  her  son.  It  was  her  own 
in  all  the  fire  of  youth;  and  as  Deronda  looked 
at  it  with  admiring  sadness,  she  said:  "  Had  I 
not  a  rightful  claim  to  be  something  more  than  a 
mere  daughter  and  mother?  The  voice  and  the 
genius  matched  the  face.  Whatever  else  was 
wrong,  acknowledge  that  I  had  a  right  to  be  an 


172  DANIEL  DERONDA 


artist,  though  my  father's  will  was  against  it. 
My  nature  gave  me  a  charter." 

"  I  do  acknowledge  that,"  said  Deronda,  look- 
ing from  the  miniature  to  her  face,  which  even 
in  its  worn  pallor  had  an  expression  of  living 
force  beyond  anything  that  the  pencil  could 
show. 

"  Will  you  take  the  portrait?  "  said  the  Prin- 
cess, more  gently.  "  If  she  is  a  kind  woman, 
teach  her  to  think  of  me  kindly." 

"  I  shall  be  grateful  for  the  portrait,"  said 
Deronda;  "  but  —  I  ought  to  say,  I  have  no  as- 
surance that  she  whom  I  love  will  have  any  love 
for  me.   I  have  kept  silence." 

"Who  and  what  is  she?"  said  the  mother. 
The  question  seemed  a  command. 

"  She  was  brought  up  as  a  singer  for  the 
stage,"  said  Deronda,  with  inward  reluctance. 
"  Her  father  took  her  away  early  from  her 
mother,  and  her  life  has  been  unhappy.  She  is 
very  young,  —  only  twenty.  Her  father  wished 
to  bring  her  up  in  disregard  —  even  in  dislike  of 
her  Jewish  origin,  but  she  has  clung  with  all  her 
affection  to  the  memory  of  her  mother  and  the 
fellowship  of  her  people." 

"  Ah!  like  you.  She  is  attached  to  the  Juda- 
ism she  knows  nothing  of,"  said  the  Princess, 
peremptorily.  "  That  is  poetry,  —  fit  to  last 
through  an  opera  night.  Is  she  fond  of  her  art- 
ist's life,  —  is  her  singing  worth  anything?  " 

"  Her  singing  is  exquisite.  But  her  voice  is 
not  suited  to  the  stage.  I  think  that  the  artist's 
life  has  been  made  repugnant  to  her." 

"  Why,  she  is  made  for  you,  then.  Sir  Hugo 
said  you  were  bitterly  against  being  a  singer,  and 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  173 


I  can  see  that  you  would  never  have  let  yourself 
.be  merged  in  a  wife,  as  your  father  was." 

"  I  repeat,"  said  Deronda,  emphatically,  — 
"  I  repeat  that  I  have  no  assurance  of  her  love 
for  me,  of  the  possibility  that  we  can  ever  be 
united.  Other  things  —  painful  issues  may  lie 
before  me.  I  have  always  felt  that  I  should 
prepare  myself  to  renounce,  not  cherish  that 
prospect.  But  I  suppose  I  might  feel  so  of 
happiness  in  general.  Whether  it  may  come 
or  not,  one  should  try  and  prepare  one's  self 
to  do  without  it." 

"  Do  you  feel  in  that  way?  "  said  his  mother, 
laying  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  and  perusing 
his  face,  while  she  spoke  in  a  low  meditative 
tone,  pausing  between  her  sentences.  "  Poor 
boy !  .  .  .  I  wonder  how  it  would  have  been  if  I 
had  kept  you  with  me  .  .  .  whether  you  would 
have  turned  your  heart  to  the  old  things  .  .  . 
against  mine  .  .  .  and  we  should  have  quar- 
relled .  .  .  your  grandfather  would  have  been 
in  you  .  .  .  and  you  would  have  hampered  my 
life  with  your  young  growth  from  the  old  root." 

"  I  think  my  affection  might  have  lasted 
through  all  our  quarrelling,"  said  Deronda,  sad- 
dened more  and  more,  "  and  that  would  not  have 
hampered,  —  surely  it  would  have  enriched  your 
hfe." 

"  Not  then,  not  then  ...  I  did  not  want  it 
then  ...  I  might  have  been  glad  of  it  now," 
said  the  mother,  with  a  bitter  melancholy,  "  if  I 
could  have  been  glad  of  anything." 

"But  you  love  your  other  children,  and  they 
love  you?  "  said  Deronda,  anxiously. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  answered,  as  to  a  question 


174         DANIEL  DERONDA 


about  a  matter  of  course,  while  she  folded  her 
arms  again.  "  But  "...  she  added  in  a  deeper 
tone,  ..."  I  am  not  a  loving  woman.  That  is 
the  truth.  It  is  a  talent  to  love,  —  I  lacked  it. 
Others  have  loved  me,  —  and  I  have  acted  their 
love.  I  know  very  well  what  love  makes  of  men 
and  women,  —  it  is  subjection.  It  takes  another 
for  a  larger  self,  enclosing  this  one,"  —  she 
pointed  to  her  own  bosom.  "  I  was  never  will- 
ingly subject  to  any  man.  Men  have  been  sub- 
ject to  me." 

"  Perhaps  the  man  who  was  subject  was  the 
happier  of  the  two,"  said  Deronda,  —  not  with  a 
smile,  but  with  a  grave,  sad  sense  of  his  mother's 
privation. 

"Perha'ps;  but  I  was  happy,  —  for  a  few 
years  I  was  happy.  If  I  had  not  been  afraid 
of  defeat  and  failure,  I  might  have  gone  on.  I 
miscalculated.  What  then?  It  is  all  over.  An- 
other life!  Men  talk  of  '  another  life,'  as  if  it 
only  began  on  the  other  side  of  the  grave.  I  have 
long  entered  on  another  life."  With  the  last 
words  she  raised  her  arms  till  they  were  bare  to 
the  elbow,  her  brow  was  contracted  in  one  deep 
fold,  her  eyes  were  closed,  her  voice  was  smoth- 
ered: in  her  dusky  flame-coloured  garment,  she 
looked  like  a  dreamed  visitant  from  some  region 
of  departed  mortals. 

Deronda' s  feeling  was  wrought  to  a  pitch  of 
acuteness  in  which  he  was  no  longer  quite  master 
of  himself.  He  gave  an  audible  sob.  His 
mother,  opening  her  eyes,  and  letting  her  hands 
again  rest  on  his  shoulders,  said,  — 

"  Good-by,  my  son,  good-by.  We  shall  hear 
no  more  of  each  other.   Kiss  me." 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  175 


He  clasped  his  arms  round  her  neck,  and  they 
kissed  each  other. 

Deronda  did  not  know  how  he  got  out  of  the 
room.  He  felt  an  older  man.  All  his  boyish 
yearnings  and  anxieties  about  his  mother  had 
vanished.  He  had  gone  through  a  tragic  experi- 
ence which  must  forever  solemnize  his  life  and 
deepen  the  significance  of  the  acts  by  which  he 
bound  himself  to  others. 


CHAPTER  V 


The  unwilling  brain 
Feigns  often  what  it  would  not ;  and  we  trust 
Imagination  with  such  phantasies 
As  the  tongue  dares  not  fashion  into  words; 
Which  have  no  words,  their  horror  makes  them  dim 
To  the  mind's  eye. 

Shellet. 

MADONNA  PIA,  whose  husband,  feeling 
himself  injured  by  her,  took  her  to  his 
castle  amid  the  swampy  flats  of  the 
Maremma  and  got  rid  of  her  there,  makes  a  pa- 
thetic figure  in  Dante's  Purgatory,  among  the 
sinners  who  repented  at  the  last  and  desire  to  be 
remembered  compassionately  by  their  fellow-- 
countrymen. We  know  little  about  the  grounds 
of  mutual  discontent  between  the  Siennese  couple, 
but  we  may  infer  with  some  confidence  that  the 
husband  had  never  been  a  very  delightful  com- 
panion, and  that  on  the  flats  of  the  Maremma 
his  disagreeable  manners  had  a  background  which 
threw  them  out  remarkably;  whence  in  his  de- 
sire to  punish  his  wife  to  the  uttermost,  the 
nature  of  things  was  so  far  against  him  that  in 
relieving  himself  of  her  he  could  not  avoid  mak- 
ing the  relief  mutual.  And  thus,  without  any 
hardness  to  the  poor  Tuscan  lady  who  had  her 
deliverance  long  ago,  one  may  feel  warranted  in 
thinking  of  her  with  a  less  sympathetic  interest 
than  of  the  better  known  Gwendolen,  who,  in- 
stead of  being  delivered  from  her  errors  on  earth 
and  cleansed  from  their  effect  in  purgatory,  is 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  177 


at  the  very  height  of  her  entanglement  in  those 
fatal  meshes  which  are  woven  within  more  closely 
than  without,  and  often  make  the  inward  tor- 
ture disproportionate  to  what  is  discernible  as 
outward  cause. 

In  taking  his  wife  with  him  on  a  yachting  ex- 
pedition, Grandcourt  had  no  intention  to  get  rid 
of  her;  on  the  contrary,  he  wanted  to  feel  more 
securely  that  she  was  his  to  do  as  he  liked  with, 
land  to  make  her  feel  it  also.  Moreover,  he  was 
himself  very  fond  of  yachting:  its  dreamy,  do- 
nothing  absolutism,  unmolested  by  social  de- 
mands, suited  his  disposition,  and  he  did  not  in 
the  least  regard  it  as  an  equivalent  for  the  dreari- 
ness of  the  Maremma.  He  had  his  reasons  for 
carrying  Gwendolen  out  of  reach,  but  they  were 
not  reasons  that  can  seem  black  in  the  mere  state- 
ment. He  suspected  a  growing  spirit  of  opposi- 
tion in  her,  and  his  feeling  about  the  sentimental 
inclination  she  betrayed  for  Deronda  was  what 
in  another  man  he  would  have  called  jealousy. 
In  himself  it  seemed  merely  a  resolution  to  put 
an  end  to  such  foolery  as  must  have  been  going 
on  in  that  prearranged  visit  of  Deronda's  which 
he  had  divined  and  interrupted. 

And  Grandcourt  might  have  pleaded  that  he 
was  perfectly  justified  in  taking  care  that  his 
wife  should  fulfil  the  obligations  she  had  ac- 
cepted. Her  marriage  was  a  contract  where  all 
the  ostensible  advantages  were  on  her  side,  and  it 
was  only  one  of  those  advantages  that  her  hus- 
band should  use  his  power  to  hinder  her  from 
any  injurious  self -committal  or  unsuitable  behav- 
iour. He  knew  quite  well  that  she  had  not  mar- 
ried him  —  had  not  overcome  her  repugnance  to 

VOL.  XIV  —  12 


178         DANIEL  DERONDA 


certain  facts  —  out  of  love  to  him  personally; 
he  had  won  her  by  the  rank  and  luxuries  he  had 
to  give  her,  and  these  she  had  got:  he  had  ful- 
filled his  side  of  the  contract. 

And  Gwendolen,  we  know,  was  thoroughly 
aware  of  the  situation.  She  could  not  excuse 
herself  by  saying  that  there  had  been  a  tacit  part 
of  the  contract  on  her  side,  —  namely,  that  she 
meant  to  rule  and  have  her  own  way.  With  all 
her  early  indulgence  in  the  disposition  to  domi- 
nate, she  was*  not  one  of  the  narrow-brained 
women  who  through  life  regard  all  their  own 
selfish  demands  as  rights,  and  every  claim  upon 
themselves  as  an  injury.  She  had  a  root  of  con- 
science in  her,  and  the  process  of  purgatory  had 
begun  for  her  on  the  green  earth:  she  knew  that 
she  had  been  wrong. 

But  now  enter  into  the  soul  of  this  young  crea- 
ture as  she  found  herself,  with  the  blue  Mediter- 
ranean dividing  her  from  the  world,  on  the  tiny 
plank-island  of  a  yacht,  the  domain  of  the  hus- 
band to  whom  she  felt  that  she  had  sold  herself, 
and  had  been  paid  the  strict  price,  —  nay,  paid 
more  than  she  had  dared  to  ask  in  the  handsome 
maintenance  of  her  mother,  —  the  husband  to 
whom  she  had  sold  her  truthfulness  and  sense 
of  justice,  so  that  he  held  them  throttled  into 
silence,  collared  and  dragged  behind  him  to  wit- 
ness what  he  would  without  remonstrance. 

What  had  she  to  complain  of?  The  yacht  was 
of  the  prettiest ;  the  cabin  fitted  up  to  perfection, 
smelling  of  cedar,  soft-cushioned,  hung  with  silk, 
expanded  with  mirrors;  the  crew  such  as  suited 
an  elegant  toy,  one  of  them  having  even  ringlets, 
as  well  as  a  bronze  complexion  and  fine  teeth :  and 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  179 


Mr.  Lush  was  not  there,  for  he  had  taken  his  way- 
back  to  England  as  soon  as  he  had  seen  all  and 
everything  on  board.  Moreover,  Gwendolen 
herself  liked  the  sea :  it  did  not  make  her  ill ;  and 
to  observe  the  rigging  of  the  vessel  and  forecast 
the  necessary  adjustments  was  a  sort  of  amuse- 
ment that  might  have  gratified  her  activity  and 
enjoyment  of  imaginary  rule;  the  weather  was 
fine',  and  they  were  coasting  southward,  where 
even  the  rain- furrowed,  heat-cracked  clay  be- 
comes gem-like  with  purple  shadows,  and  where 
one  may  float  between  blue  and  blue  in  an  open- 
eyed  dream  that  the  world  has  done  with  sorrow. 

But  what  can  still  that  hunger  of  the  heart 
which  sickens  the  eye  for  beauty  and  makes 
sweet-scented  ease  an  oppression?  What  sort  of 
Moslem  paradise  would  quiet  the  terrible  fury  of 
moral  repulsion  and  cowed  resistance  which,  like 
an  eating  pain  intensifying  into  torture,  concen- 
trates the  mind  in  that  poisonous  misery?  While 
Gwendolen,  throned  on  her  cushions  at  evening, 
and  beholding  the  glory  of  sea  and  sky  softening 
as  if  with  boundless  love  around  her,  was  hoping 
that  Grandcourt  in  his  march  up  and  down  was 
not  going  to  pause  near  her,  not  going  to  look  at 
her  or  speak  to  her,  some  woman  under  a  smoky 
sky,  obliged  to  consider  the  price  of  eggs  in  ar- 
ranging her  dinner,  was  listening  for  the  music 
of  a  footstep  that  would  remove  all  risk  from  her 
foretaste  of  joy;  some  couple,  bending  cheek  by 
cheek  over  a  bit  of  work  done  by  the  one  and  de- 
lighted in  by  the  other,  were  reckoning  the  earn- 
ings that  would  make  them  rich  enough  for  a 
holiday  among  the  furze  and  heather. 

Had  Grandcourt  the  least  conception  of  what 


180  DANIEL  DERONDA 


was  going  on  in  the  breast  of  this  wife?  He  con- 
ceived that  she  did  not  love  him:  but  was  that 
necessary?  She  was  under  his  power,  and  he 
was  not  accustomed  to  soothe  himself,  as  some 
cheerfully  disposed  persons  are,  with  the  convic- 
tion that  he  was  very  generally  and  justly  be- 
loved. But  what  lay  quite  away  from  his  con- 
ception was  that  she  could  have  any  special  re- 
pulsion for  him  personally.  How  could  she? 
He  himself  knew  what  personal  repulsion  was, 
—  nobody  better :  his  mind  was  much  furnished 
with  a  sense  of  what  brutes  his  fellow-creatures 
were,  both  masculine  and  feminine;  what  odious 
familiarities  they  had,  what  smirks,  what  modes 
of  flourishing  their  handkerchiefs,  what  costume, 
what  lavender  water,  what  bulging  eyes,  and 
what  foolish  notions  of  making  themselves  agree- 
able by  remarks  which  were  not  wanted.  In  this 
critical  view  of  mankind  there  was  an  affinity  be- 
tween him  and  Gwendolen  before  their  marriage, 
and  we  know  that  she  had  been  attractingly 
wrought  upon  by  the  refined  negations  he  pre- 
sented to  her.  Hence  he  understood  her  repul- 
sion for  Lush.  But  how  was  he  to  understand 
or  conceive  her  present  repulsion  for  Henleigh 
Grandcourt?  Some  men  bring  themselves  to  be- 
lieve, and  not  merely  maintain,  the  non-existence 
of  an  external  world ;  a  few  others  believe  them- 
selves objects  of  repulsion  to  a  woman  without 
being  told  so  in  plain  language.  But  Grandcourt 
did  not  belong  to  this  eccentric  body  of  thinkers. 
He  had  all  his  life  had  reason  to  take  a  flattering 
view  of  his  own  attractiveness,  and  to  place  him- 
self in  fine  antithesis  to  the  men  who,  he  saw  at 
once,  must  be  revolting  to  a  woman  of  taste.  He 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  181 


had  no  idea  of  a  moral  repulsion,  and  could  not 
have  believed,  if  he  had  been  told  it,  that  there 
may  be  a  resentment  and  disgust  which  will 
gradually  make  beauty  more  detestable  than 
ugliness,  through  exasperation  at  that  outward 
virtue  in  which  hateful  things  can  flaunt  them- 
selves or  find  a  supercilious  advantage. 

How,  then,  could  Grandcourt  divine  what  was 
going  on  in  Gwendolen's  breast? 

For  their  behaviour  to  each  other  scandalized 
no  observer,  —  not  even  the  foreign  maid  war- 
ranted against  sea-sickness;  nor  Grandcourt's 
own  experienced  valet ;  still  less  the  picturesque 
crew,  who  regarded  them  as  a  model  couple  in 
high  life.  Their  companionship  consisted  chiefly 
in  a  well-bred  silence.  Grandcourt  had  no  hu- 
morous observations  at  which  Gwendolen  could 
refuse  to  smile,  no  chit-chat  to  make  small  occa- 
sions of  dispute.  He  was  perfectly  polite  in  ar- 
ranging an  additional  garment  over  her  when 
needful,  and  in  handing  her  any  object  that  he 
perceived  her  to  need,  and  she  could  not  fall  into 
the  vulgarity  of  accepting  or  rejecting  such 
politeness  rudely. 

Grandcourt  put  up  his  telescope  and  said, 
"  There 's  a  plantation  of  sugar-canes  at  the  foot 
of  that  rock:  should  you  like  to  look?  " 

Gwendolen  said,  "  Yes,  please,"  remembering 
that  she  must  try  and  interest  herself  in  sugar- 
canes  as  something  outside  her  personal  affairs. 
Then  Grandcourt  would  walk  up  and  down  and 
smoke  for  a  long  while,  pausing  occasionally  to 
point  out  a  sail  on  the  horizon,  and  at  last  wQuld 
seat  himself  and  look  at  Gwendolen  with  his 
narrow,  immovable  gaze,  as  if  she  were  part  of 


182  DANIEL  DERONDA 


the  complete  yacht ;  while  she,  conscious  of  being 
looked  at,  was  exerting  her  ingenuity  not  to  meet 
his  eyes.  At  dinner  he  would  remark  that  the 
fruit  was  getting  stale,. and  they  must  put  in 
somewhere  for  more;  or,  observing  that  she  did 
not  drink  the  wine,  he  asked  her  if  she  would  like 
any  other  kind  better.  A  lady  was  obliged  to 
respond  to  these  things  suitably ;  and  even  if  she 
had  not  shrunk  from  quarrelling  on  other 
grounds,  quarrelling  with  Grandcourt  was  im- 
possible: she  might  as  well  have  made  angry 
remarks  to  a  dangerous  serpent  ornamentally 
coiled  in  her  cabin  without  invitation.  And  what 
sort  of  dispute  could  a  woman  of  any  pride  and 
dignity  begin  on  a  yacht? 

Grandcourt  had  an  intense  satisfaction  in 
leading  his  wife  captive  after  this  fashion:  it 
gave  their  hfe  on  a  small  scale  a  royal  represen- 
tation and  publicity  in  which  everything  familiar 
was  got  rid  of,  and  everybody  must  do  what  was 
expected  of  them  whatever  might  be  their  private 
protest,  —  the  protest  (kept  strictly  private) 
adding  to  the  piquancy  of  despotism. 

To  Gwendolen,  who  even  in  the  freedom  of  her 
maiden  time  had  had  very  faint  glimpses  of  any 
heroism  or  sublimity,  the  medium  that  now  thrust 
itself  everywhere  before  her  view  was  this  hus- 
band and  her  relation  to  him.  The  beings  closest 
to  us,  whether  in  love  or  hate,  are  often  virtually 
our  interpreters  of  the  world,  and  some  feather- 
headed  gentleman  or  lady  whom  in  passing  we 
regret  to  take  as  legal  tender  for  a  human  being 
may  be  acting  as  a  melancholy  theory  of  life  in 
the  minds  of  those  who  live  with  them,  —  like  a 
piece  of  yellow  and  wavy  glass  that  distorts  form 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  183 


and  makes  colour  an  affliction.  Their  trivial 
sentences,  their  petty  standards,  their  low  sus- 
picions, their  loveless  ennui,  may  be  making 
somebody  else's  life  no  better  than  a  promenade 
through  a  pantheon  of  ugly  idols.  Gwendolen 
had  that  kind  of  window  before  her,  affecting 
the  distant  equally  with  the  near.  Some  un- 
happy wives  are  soothed  by  the  possibility  that 
they  may  become  mothers ;  but  Gwendolen  felt 
that  to  desire  a  child  for  herself  would  have  been 
a  consenting  to  the  completion  of  the  injury  she 
had  been  guilty  of.  She  was  reduced  to  dread 
lest  she  should  become  a  mother.  It  was  not  the 
image  of  a  new  sweetly  budding  life  that  came  as 
a  vision  of  deliverance  from  the  monotony  of  dis- 
taste: it  was  an  image  of  another  sort.  In  the 
irritable,  fluctuating  stages  of  despair,  gleams 
of  hope  came  in  the  form  of  some  possible  acci- 
dent. To  dwell  on  the  benignity  of  accident  was 
a  refuge  from  worse  temptation. 

The  embitterment  of  ibatred  is  often  as  unac- 
countable to  onlookers  as  the  growth  of  devoted 
love,  and  it  not  only  seems  but  is  really  out  of 
direct  relation  with  any  outward  causes  to  be 
alleged.  Passion  is  of  the  nature  of  seed,  and 
finds  nourishment  within,  tending  to  a  predomi- 
nance which  determines  all  currents  towards 
itself,  and  makes  the  whole  life  its  tributary. 
And  the  intensest  form  of  hatred  is  that  rooted 
in  fear,  which  compels  to  silence  and  drives  vehe- 
mence into  a  constructive  vindictiveness,  an  im- 
aginary annihilation  -of  the  detested  object, 
something  like  the  hidden  rites  of  vengeance  with 
which  the  persecuted  have  made  a  dark  vent  for 
their  rage,  and  soothed  their  suffering  into  dumb- 


184  DANIEL  DERONDA 


ness.  Such  hidden  rites  went  on  in  the  secrecy 
of  Gwendolen's  mind,  but  not  with  soothing 
effect,  —  rather  with  the  effect  of  a  struggHng 
terror.  Side  by  side  with  the  dread  of  her  hus- 
band had  grown  the  self-dread  which  urged  her 
to  flee  from  the  pursuing  images  wrought  by 
her  pent-up  impulse.  The  vision  of  her  past 
wrong-doing,  and  what  it  had  brought  on  her, 
came  with  a  pale  ghastly  illumination  over  every 
imagined  deed  that  was  a  rash  effort  at  freedom, 
such  as  she  had  made  in  her  marriage.  More- 
over, she  had  learned  to  see  all  her  acts  through 
the  impression  they  would  make  on  Deronda: 
whatever  relief  might  come  to  her,  she  could  not 
sever  it  from  the  judgment  of  her  that  would 
be  created  in  his  mind.  Not  one  word  of  flattery, 
of  indulgence,  of  dependence  on  her  favour, 
could  be  fastened  on  by  her  in  all  their  inter- 
course, to  weaken  his  restraining  power  over  her 
(in  this  way  Deronda's  effort  over  himself  was 
repaid)  ;  and  amid  the  dreary  uncertainties  of 
her  spoiled  life  the  possible  remedies  that  lay 
in  his  mind,  nay,  the  remedy  that  lay  in  her  feel- 
ing for  him,  made  her  only  hope.  He  seemed 
to  her  a  terrible-browed  angel  from  whom  she 
could  not  think  of  concealing  any  deed  so  as  to 
win  an  ignorant  regard  from  him:  it  belonged 
to  the  nature  of  their  relation  that  she  should 
be  truthful,  for  his  power  over  her  had  begun  in 
the  raising  of  a  self -discontent  which  could  be 
satisfied  only  by  genuine  change.  But  in  no  con- 
cealment had  she  now  any  confidence :  her  vision 
of  what  she  had  to  dread  took  more  decidedly' 
than  ever  the  form  of  some  fiercely  impulsive 
deed,  committed  as  in  a  dream  that  she  would 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  185 


instantaneously  wake  from  to  find  the  effects 
real  though  the  images  had  been  false:  to  find 
death  under  her  hands,  but  instead  of  darkness, 
daylight ;  instead  of  satisfied  hatred,  the  dismay 
of  guilt;  instead  of  freedom,  the  palsy  of  a  new 
terror,  —  a  white  dead  face  from  which  she  was 
forever  trying  to  flee  and  forever  held  back. 
She  remembered  Deronda's  words:  they  were 
continually  recurring  in  her  thought,  — 

"  Turn  your  fear  into  a  safeguard.  Keep 
your*dread  fixed  on  the  idea  of  increasing  your 
remorse.  .  .  .  Take  your  fear  as  a,  safeguard. 
It  is  like  quickness  of  hearing.  It  may  make 
consequences  passionately  present  to  you.'' 

And  so  it  was.  In  Gwendolen's  consciousness 
Temptation  and  Dread  met  and  stared  like  two 
pale  phantoms,  each  seeing  itself  in  the  other,  — 
each  obstructed  by  its  own  image;  and  all  the 
while  her  fuller  self  beheld  the  apparitions  and 
sobbed  for  deliverance  from  them. 

Inarticulate  prayers,  no  more  definite  than  a 
cry,  often  swept  out  from  her  into  the  vast  si- 
lence, unbroken  except  by  her  husband's  breath- 
ing or  the  plash  of  the  wave  or  the  creaking  of 
the  masts;  but  if  ever  she  thought  of  definite 
help,  it  took  the  form  of  Deronda's  presence  and 
words,  of  the  sympathy  he  might  have  for  her,  of 
the  direction  he  might  give  her.  It  was  some- 
times after  a  white-lipped,  fierce-eyed  temptation 
with  murdering  fingers  had  made  its  demon- 
visit  that  these  best  moments  of  inward  crying 
and  clinging  for  rescue  would  come  to  her,  and 
she  would  lie  with  wide-open  eyes  in  which  the 
rising  tears  seemed  a  blessing,  and  the  thought, 
"  I  wiU  not  mind  if  I  can  keep  from  getting 


186         DANIEL  DERONDA 


wicked,"  seemed  an  answer  to  the  indefinite 
prayer. 

So  the  days  passed,  taking  them  with  hght 
breezes  beyond  and  about  the  Balearic  Isles,  and 
then  to  Sardinia,  and  then  with  gentle  change 
persuading  them  northward  again  towards 
Corsica.  But  this  floating,  gently  wafted  ex- 
istence, with  its  apparently  peaceful  influ- 
ences, was  becoming  as  bad  as  a  nightmare  to 
Gwendolen. 

"  How  long  are  we  to  be  yachting?  "  she  ven- 
tured to  ask  one  day  after  they  had  been  touch- 
ing at  Ajaccio,  and  the  mere  fact  of  change  in 
going  ashore  had  given  her  a  relief  from  some 
of  the  thoughts  which  seemed  now  to  cling  about 
the  very  rigging  of  the  vessel,  mix  with  the  air 
in  the  red  silk  cabin  below,  and  make  the  smell 
of  the  sea  odious. 

"  What  else  should  we  do?  "  said  Grandcourt. 
"  I 'm  not  tired  of  it.  I  don't  see  why  we 
should  n't  stay  out  any  length  of  time.  There 's 
less  to  bore  one  in  this  way.  And  where  would 
you  go  to?  I 'm  sick  of  foreign  places.  And  we 
shall  have  enough  of  Ryelands.  Would  you 
rather  be  at  Ryelands?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Gwendolen,  indifferently,  find- 
ing all  places  alike  undesirable  as  soon  as  she 
imagined  herself  and  her  husband  in  them.  "  I 
only  wondered  how  long  you  would  like  this." 

"  I  like  yachting  longer  than  I  like  anything 
else,"  said  Grandcourt;  "and  I  had  none  last 
year.  I  suppose  you  are  beginning  to  tire  of  it. 
Women  are  so  confoundedly  whimsical.  They 
expect  everything  to  give  way  to  them." 

"  Oh  dear,  no! "  said  Gwendolen,  letting  out 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  187 


her  scorn  in  a  flute-like  tone.  "  I  never  expect 
you  to  give  way." 

"  Why  should  I?  "  said  Grandcourt,  with  his 
inward  voice,  looking  at  her,  and  then  choosing 
an  orange,  —  for  they  were  at  table. 

She  made  up  her  mind  to  a  length  of  yacht- 
ing that  she  could  not  see  beyond ;  but  the  next 
day,  after  a  squall  which  had  made  her  rather 
ill  for  the  first  time,  he  came  down  to  her  and 
said,  — 

"  There 's  been  the  devil's  own  work  in  the 
night.  The  skipper  says  we  shall  have  to  stay 
at  Genoa  for  a  week  while  things  are  set  right." 

"  Do  you  mind  that?  "  said  Gwendolen,  who 
lay  looking  very  white  amidst  her  white  drapery. 

"  I  should  think  so.  Who  wants  to  be  broil- 
ing at  Genoa?  " 

"  It  will  be  a  change,"  said  Gwendolen,  made 
a  little  incautious  by  her  languor. 

"  /  don't  want  any  change.  Besides,  the  place 
is  intolerable;  and  one  can't  move  along  the 
roads.  I  shall  go  out  in  a  boat,  as  I  used  to 
do,  and  manage  it  myself.  One  can  get  rid  of 
a  few  hours  every  day  in  that  way  instead  of 
stiving  in  a  danmable  hotel." 

Here  was  a  prospect  which  held  hope  in  it. 
Gwendolen  thought  of  hours  when  she  would 
be  alone,  since  Grandcourt  would  not  want  to 
take  her  in  the  said  boat;  and  in  her  exultation 
at  this  unlooked-for  relief,  she  had  wild,  con- 
tradictory fancies  of  what  she  might  do  with 
her  freedom,  —  that  "  running  away,"  which  she 
had  already  innumerable  times  seen  to  be  a 
worse  evil  than  any  actual  endurance,  now  find- 
ing new  arguments  as  an  escape  from  her  worse 


188         DANIEL  DERONDA 


self.  Also,  visionary  relief  on  a  par  with  the 
fancy  of  a  prisoner  that  the  night  wind  may 
blow  down  the  wall  of  his  prison  and  save  him 
from  desperate  devices,  insinuated  itself  as  a 
better  alternative,  lawful  to  wish  for. 

The  fresh  current  of  expectation  revived  her 
energies,  and  enabled  her  to  take  all  things  with 
an  air  of  cheerfulness  and  alacrity  that  made  a 
change  marked  enough  to  be  noticed  by  her 
husband.  She  watched  through  the  evening 
lights  to  the  sinking  of  the  moon  with  less  of 
awed  loneliness  than  was  habitual  to  her,  —  nay, 
with  a  vague  impression  that  in  this  mighty 
frame  of  things  there  might  be  some  prepara- 
tion of  rescue  for  her.  Why  not?  —  since  the 
weather  had  just  been  on  her  side.  This  pos- 
sibility of  hoping  after  her  long  fluctuation  amid 
fears,  was  like  a  first  return  of  hunger  to  the 
long  languishing  patient. 

She  was  waked  the  next  morning  by  the  cast- 
ing of  the  anchor  in  the  port  of  Genoa,  —  waked 
from  a  strangely  mixed  dream  in  which  she  felt 
herself  escaping  over  the  Mont  Cenis,  and  won- 
dering to  find  it  warmer  even  in  the  moonlight 
on  the  snow,  till  suddenly  she  met  Deronda,  who 
told  her  to  go  back. 

In  an  hour  or  so  from  that  dream  she  actually 
met  Deronda.  But  it  was  on  the  palatial  stair- 
case of  the  Italia,  where  she  was  feeling  warm 
in  her  light  woollen  dress  and  straw  hat ;  and  her 
husband  was  by  her  side. 

There  was  a  start  of  surprise  in  Deronda  be- 
fore he  could  raise  his  hat  and  pass  on.  The 
moment  did  not  seem  to  favour  any  closer  greet- 
ing, and  the  circumstances  under  which  they  had 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  189 


last  parted  made  him  doubtful  whether  Grand- 
court  would  be  civilly  inclined  to  him. 

The  doubt  might  certainly  have  been  changed 
into  a  disagreeable  certainty,  for  Grandcourt  on 
this  unaccountable  appearance  of  Deronda  at 
Genoa,  of  all  places,  immediately  tried  to  con- 
ceive how  there  could  have  been  an  arrange- 
ment between  him  ^nd  Gwendolen.  It  is  true 
that  before  they  were  well  in  their  rooms,  he 
had  seen  how  difficult  it  was  to  shape  such  an 
arrangement  with  any  probability,  being  too 
cool-headed  to  find  it  at  once  easily  credible  that 
Gwendolen  had  not  only  while  in  London  has- 
tened to  inform  Deronda  of  the  yachting  project, 
but  had  posted  a  letter  to  him  from  Marseilles 
or  Barcelona,  advising  him  to  travel  to  Genoa 
in  time  for  the  chance  of  meeting  her  there,  or  of 
receiving  a  letter  from  her  telling  of  some  other 
destination,  —  all  which  must  have  implied 
a  miraculous  foreknowledge  in  her,  and  in  De- 
ronda a  birdlike  facility  in  flying  about  and 
perching  idly.  Still  he  was  there,  and  though 
Grandcourt  would  not  make  a  fool  of  himself 
by  fabrications  that  others  might  call  preposter- 
ous, he  was  not,  for  all  that,  disposed  to  admit 
fully  that  Deronda's  presence  was  so  far  as 
Gwendolen  was  concerned  a  mere  accident.  It 
was  a  disgusting  fact;  that  was  enough;  and 
no  doubt  she  was  well  pleased.  A  man  out  of 
temper  does  not  wait  for  proofs  before  feeling 
towards  all  things  animate  and  inanimate  as 
if  they  were  in  a  conspiracy  against  him,  but 
at  once  thrashes  his  horse  or  kicks  his  dog  in 
consequence.  Grandcourt  felt  towards  Gwen- 
dolen and  Deronda  as  if  he  knew  them  to  be  in 


190         DANIEL  DERONDA 


a  conspiracy  against  him,  and  here  was  an  event 
in  league  with  them.  What  he  took  for  clearly 
certain  —  and  so  far  he  divined  the  truth  —  was 
that  Gwendolen  was  now  counting  on  an  inter- 
view with  Deronda  whenever  her  husband's  back 
was  turned. 

As  he  sat  taking  his  coffee  at  a  convenient 
angle  for  observing  her,  he  discerned  something 
which  he  felt  sure  was  the  effect  of  a  secret  de- 
light, —  some  fresh  ease  in  moving  and  speak- 
ing, some  peculiar  meaning  in  her  eyes,  whatever 
she  looked  on.  Certainly  her  troubles  had  not 
marred  her  beauty.  Mrs.'  Grandcourt  was  hand- 
somer than  Gwendolen  Harleth:  her  grace  and 
expression  were  informed  by  a  greater  variety 
of  inward  experience,  giving  new  play  to  her 
features,  new  attitudes  in  movement  and  repose; 
her  whole  person  and  air  had  the  nameless  some- 
thing which  often  makes  a  woman  more  inter- 
esting after  marriage  than  before,  less  confident 
that  all  things  are  according  to  her  opinion,  and 
yet  with  less  of  deerlike  shyness,  —  more  fully 
a  human  being. 

This  morning  the  benefits  of  the  voyage 
seemed  to  be  suddenly  revealing  themselves  in 
a  new  elasticity  of  mien.  As  she  rose  from  the 
table  and  put  her  two  heavily  jewelled  hands 
on  each  side  of  her  neck,  according  to  her  wont, 
she  had  no  art  to  conceal  that  sort  of  joyous 
expectation  which  makes  the  present  more 
bearable  than  usual,  just  as  when  a  man  means 
to  go  out  he  finds  it  easier  to  be  amiable  to  the 
family  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  beforehand.  It 
is  not  impossible  that  a  terrier  whose  pleasure 
was  concerned  would  perceive  those  amiable 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  191 


signs  and  know  their  meaning*,  —  know  why  his 
master  stood  in  a  pecuhar  way,  talked  with 
alacrity,  and  even  had  a  peculiar  gleam  in  his 
eye,  so  that  on  the  least  movement  towards  the 
door,  the  terrier  would  scuttle  to  be  in  time. 
And,  in  dog  fashion,  Grandcourt  discerned  the 
signs  of  Gwendolen's  expectation,  interpreting 
them  with  the  narrow  correctness  which  leaves 
a  world  of  unknown  feeling  behind. 

"  A  —  just  ring,  please,  and  tell  Gibbs  to  or- 
der some  dinner  for  us  at  three,"  said  Grand- 
court,  as  he  too  rose,  took  out  a  cigar,  and  then 
stretched  his  hand  towards  the  hat  that  lay  near. 
"  I 'm  going  to  send  Angus  to  find  me  a  little 
sailing-boat  for  us  to  go  out  in;  one  that  I  can 
manage,  with  you  at  the  tiller.  It 's  uncom- 
monly pleasant  these  fine  evenings,  —  the  least 
boring  of  anything  we  can  do." 

Gwendolen  turned  cold:  there  was  not  only 
the  cruel  disappointment,  —  there  was  the  im- 
mediate conviction  that  her  husband  had  deter- 
mined to  take  her  because  he  would  not  leave 
her  out  of  his  sight;  and  probably  this  dual 
solitude  in  a  boat  was  the  more  attractive  to 
him  because  it  would  be  wearisome  to  her. 
They  were  not  on  the  plank-island;  she  felt 
it  the  more  possible  to  begin  a  contest.  But 
the  gleaming  content  had  died  out  of  her. 
There  was  a  change  in  her  like  that  of  a 
glacier  after  sunset. 

"  I  would  rather  not  go  in  the  boat,"  she  said. 
"  Take  some  one  else  with  you." 

"  Very  well ;  if  you  don't  go,  I  shall  not  go," 
said  Grandcourt.  "  We  shall  stay  suffocating 
here,  that 's  all." 


192  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  I  can't  bear  going  in  a  boat,"  said  Gwen- 
dolen, angrily. 

"  That  is  a  sudden  change,"  said  Grandcourt, 
with  a  slight  sneer.  "  But  since  you  decline,  we 
shall  stay  indoors." 

He  laid  down  his  hat  again,  lit  his  cigar,  and 
walked  up  and  down  the  room,  pausing  now 
and  then  to  look  out  of  the  windows.  Gwen- 
dolen's temper  told  her  to  persist.  She  knew 
very  well  now  that  Grandcourt  would  not  go 
without  her;  but  if  he  must  tyrannize  over  her, 
he  should  not  do  it  precisely  in  the  way  he  would 
choose.  She  would  oblige  him  to  stay  in  the 
hotel.  Without  speaking  again  she  passed  into 
the  adjoining  bedroom,  and  threw  herself  into 
a  chair  with  her  anger,  seeing  no  purpose  or 
issue,  —  only  feeling  that  the  wave  of  evil  had 
rushed  back  upon  her,  and  dragged  her  away 
from  her  momentary  breathing-place. 

Presently  Grandcourt  came  in  with  his  hat  on, 
but  threw  it  off  and  sat  down  sideways  on  a 
chair  nearly  in  front  of  her,  saying  in  his  super- 
ficial drawl,  — 

"  Have  you  come  round  yet?  or  do  you  find 
it  agreeable  to  be  out  of  temper?  You  make 
things  uncommonly  pleasant  for  me." 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  make  them  unpleasant 
for  mef  said  Gwendolen,  getting  helpless 
again,  and  feeling  the  hot  tears  rise. 

"  Now,  will  you  be  good  enough  to  say  what 
it  is  you  have  to  complain  of  ?  "  said  Grand- 
court,  looking  into  her  eyes,  and  using  his  most 
inward  voice.  "  Is  it  that  I  stay  indoors  when 
you  stay?  " 

She  could  give  no  answer.   The  sort  of  truth 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  193 


that  made  any  excuse  for  her  anger  could  not 
be  uttered.  In  the  conflict  of  despair  and  humil- 
iation she  began  to  sob,  and  the  tears  rolled 
down  her  cheeks,  —  a  form  of  agitation  which 
she  had  never  shown  before  in  her  husband's 
presence. 

"  I  hope  this  is  useful,"  said  Grandcourt,  after 
a  moment  or  two.  "  All  I  can  say  is,  it 's  most 
confoundedly  unpleasant.  What  the  devil 
women  can  see  in  this  kind  of  thing,  I  don't 
know.  You  see  something  to  be  got  by  it,  of 
course.  All  I  can  see  is,  that  we  shall  be  shut 
up  here  when  we  might  have  been  having  a 
pleasant  sail." 

"  Let  us  go,  then,"  said  Gwendolen,  impetu- 
ously. "  Perhaps  we  shall  be  drowned."  She 
began  to  sob  again. 

This  extraordinary  behaviour,  which  had  evi- 
dently some  relation  to  Deronda,  gave  more 
definiteness  to  Grandcourt's  conclusions.  He 
drew  his  chair  quite  close  in  front  of  her,  and 
said  in  a  low  tone,  "  Just  be  quiet  and  listen, 
will  you?  " 

There  seemed  to  be  a  magical  effect  in  this 
close  vicinity.  Gwendolen  shrank,  and  ceased 
to  sob.  She  kept  her  eyelids  down,  and  clasped 
her  hands  tightly. 

"  Let  us  understand  each  other,"  said  Grand- 
court,  in  the  same  tone.  I  know  very  well  what 
this  nonsense  means.  But  if  you  suppose  I  am 
going  to  let  you  make  a  fool  of  me,  just  dismiss 
that  notion  from  your  mind.  What  are  you 
looking  forward  to,  if  you  can't  behave  properly 
as  my  wife?  There  is  disgrace  for  you,  if  you 
like  to  have  it,  but  I  don't  know  anything  else; 

VOL.  XIV  — 13 


194  DANIEL  DERONDA 


and  as  to  Deronda,  it 's  quite  clear  that  he  hangs 
back  from  you." 

"It  is  all  false!"  said  Gwendolen,  bitterly,  . 
"  You  don't  in  the  least  imagine  what  is  in  my 
mind.  I  have  seen  enough  of  the  disgrace  that 
comes  in  that  way.  And  you  had  better  leave  me 
at  liberty  to  speak  with  any  one  I  like.  It  would 
be  better  for  you." 

"  You  will  allow  me  to  judge  of  that,"  said 
Grandcourt,  rising  and  moving  to  a  little  dis- 
tance towards  the  window,  but  standing  there 
playing  with  his  whiskers  as  if  he  were  awaiting 
something. 

Gwendolen's  words  had  so  clear  and  tremen- 
dous a  meaning  for  herself  that  she  thought  they 
must  have  expressed  it  to  Grandcourt,  and  had 
no  sooner  uttered  them  than  she  dreaded  their 
effect.  But  his  soul  was  garrisoned  against 
presentiments  and  fears :  he  had  the  courage  and 
confidence  that  belong  to  domination,  and  he 
was  at  that  moment  feeling  perfectly  satisfied 
that  he  held  his  wife  with  bit  and  bridle.  By  the 
time  they  had  been  married  a  year  she  would 
cease  to  be  restive.  He  continued  standing  with 
his  air  of  indifference,  till  she  felt  her  habitual 
stifling  consciousness  of  having  an  immovable 
obstruction  in  her  life,  like  the  nightmare  of 
beholding  a  single  form  that  serves  to  arrest  all 
passage  though  the  wide  country  lies  open. 

"  What  decision  have  you  come  to?  "  he  said, 
presently  looking  at  her.  "  What  orders  shall 
I  give?" 

"  Oh,  let  us  go,"  said  Gwendolen.  The  walls 
had  begun  to  be  an  imprisonment,  and  while 
there  was  breath  in  this  man  he  would  have  the 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  195 


mastery  over  her.  His  words  had  the  power 
of  thumb-screws  and  the  cold  touch  of  the  rack. 
To  resist  was  to  act  hke  a  stupid  animal  unable 
to  measure  results. 

So  the  boat  was  ordered.  She  even  went  down 
to  the  quay  again  with  him  to  see  it  before  mid- 
day. Grandcourt  had  recovered  perfect  qui- 
etude of  temper,  and  had  a  scornful  satisfaction 
in  the  attention  given  by  the  nautical  groups 
to  the  milord,  owner  of  the  handsome  yacht 
which  had  just  put  in  for  repairs,  and  who  being 
•  an  Englishman  was  naturally  so  at  home  on  the 
sea  that  he  could  manage  a  sail  with  the  same 
ease  that  he  could  manage  a  horse.  The  sort 
of  exultation  he  had  discerned  in  Gwendolen 
this  morning  she  now^  thought  that  she  discerned 
in  him ;  and  it  w^as  true  that  he  had  set  his  mind 
on  this  boating,  and  carried  out  his  purpose  as 
something  that  people  might  not  expect  him  to 
do,  with  the  gratified  impulse  of  a  strong  will 
which  had  nothing  better  to  exert  itself  upon. 
He  had  remarkable  physical  courage,  and  Vvas 
proud  of  it,  —  or  rather  he  had  a  great  contempt 
for  the  coarser,  bulkier  men  who  generally  had 
less.  JNIor cover,  he  was  ruling  that  Gwendolen 
should  go  with  him. 

And  when  they  came  down  again  at  five 
o'clock,  equipped  for  their  boating,  the  scene 
was  as  good  as  a  theatrical  representation  for  all 
beholders.  This  handsome,  fair-skinned  Eng- 
hsh  couple  manifesting  the  usual  eccentricity  of 
their  nation,  both  of  them  proud,  pale,  and  calm, 
without  a  smile  on  their  faces,  moving  like  crea- 
tures who  were  fulfilling  a  supernatural  destiny, 
—  it  was  a  thing  to  go  out  and  see,  a  thing  to 


196         DANIEL  DERONDA 


paint.  The  husband's  chest,  back,  and  arms 
showed  very  well  in  his  close-fitting  dress,  and 
the  wife  was  declared  to  be  like  a  statue. 

Some  suggestions  were  proffered  concerning 
a  possible  change  in  the  breeze,  and  the  neces- 
sary care  in  putting  about,  but  Grandcourt's 
manner  made  the  speakers  understand  that  they 
were  too  officious,  and  that  he  knew  better  than 
they. 

Gwendolen,  keeping  her  impassible  air,  as 
they  moved  away  from  the  strand,  felt  her 
imagination  obstinately  at  work.  She  was  not  ' 
afraid  of  any  outward  dangers,  —  she  was  afraid 
of  her  own  wishes,  which  were  taking  shapes 
possible  and  impossible,  like  a  cloud  of  demon- 
faces.  She  was  afraid  of  her  own  hatred,  which 
under  the  cold  iron  touch  that  had  compelled 
her  to-day  had  gathered  a  fierce  intensity.  As 
she  sat  guiding  the  tiller  under  her  husband's 
eyes,  doing  just  what  he  told  her,  the  strife  with- 
in her  seemed  like  her  own  effort  to  escape  from 
herself.  She  clung  to  the  thought  of  Deronda: 
she  persuaded  herself  that  he  would  not  go  away 
while  she  was  there,  —  he  knew  she  needed  help. 
The  sense  that  he  was  there  would  save  her  from 
acting  out  the  evil  within.  And  yet  quick,  quick, 
came  images,  plans  of  evil  that  would  come 
again  and  seize  her  in  the  night,  like  furies  pre- 
paring the  deed  that  they  would  straightway 
avenge. 

They  were  taken  out  of  the  port  and  carried 
eastward  by  a  gentle  breeze.  Some  clouds  tem- 
pered the  sunlight,  and  the  hour  was  always 
deepening  towards  the  supreme  beauty  of  even- 
ing.    Sails  larger  and  smaller  changed  their 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  197 


aspect  like  sensitive  things,  and  made  a  cheerful 
companionship,  alternately  near  and  far.  The 
grand  city  shone  more  vaguely,  the  mountains 
looked  out  above  it,  and  there  was  stillness  as 
in  an  island  sanctuary.  Yet  suddenly  Gwen- 
dolen let  her  hands  fall,  and  said  in  a  scarcely 
audible  tone,  "  God  help  me!  " 

"  What  is  the  matter? "  said  Grandcourt,  not 
distinguishing  the  words. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  said  Gwendolen,  rousing  her- 
self from  her  momentary  forgetfulness  and  re- 
suming the  ropes. 

"  Don't  you  find  this  pleasant?  "  said  Grand- 
court. 

"  Very." 

"  You  admit  now  we  could  n't  have  done  any- 
thing better?  " 

"  No,  —  I  see  nothing  better.  I  think  we 
shall  go  on  always,  like  the  Flying  Dutchman," 
said  Gwendolen,  wildly. 

Grandcourt  gave  her  one  of  his  narrow,  ex- 
amining glances,  and  then  said,  "If  you  like, 
we  can  go  to  Spezia  in  the  morning,  and  let 
them  take  us  up  there." 

"  No;'  I  shall  like  nothing  better  than  this." 
Very  well ;  we  '11  do  the  same  to-morrow. 
But  we  must  be  turning  in  soon.  I  shall  put 
about." 


CHAPTER  VI 


Ritorna  a  tua  scienza 
Che  vuol,  quanto  la  cosa  e  piu  perfetta 
Piu  senta  il  bene,  e  cosi  la  doglienza. 

Dante. 

y 

WHEN  Deronda  met  Gwendolen  and 
Grandcourt  on  the  staircase,  his  mind 
was  seriously  preoccupied.     He  had 
just  been  summoned  to  the  second  interview 
with  his  mother. 

In  two  hours  after  his  parting  from  her  he 
knew  that  the  Princess  Halm-Eberstein  had 
left  the  hotel,  and  so  far  as  the  purpose  of  his 
journey  to  Genoa  was  concerned  he  might  him- 
self have  set  off  on  his  way  to  Mainz,  to  deliver 
the  letter  from  Joseph  Kalonymos,  and  get  pos- 
session of  the  family  chest.  But  mixed  mental 
conditions,  which  did  not  resolve  themselves  into 
definite  reasons,  hindered  him  from  departure. 
Long  after  the  farewell  he  was  kept  passive  by 
a  weight  of  retrospective  feeling.  He  lived 
again,  with  the  new  keenness  of  emotive  mem- 
ory, through  the  exciting  scenes  which  seemed 
past  only  in  the  sense  of  preparation  for  their 
actual  presence  in  his  soul.  He  allowed  himself 
in  his  solitude  to  sob,  with  perhaps  more  than 
a  woman's  acuteness  of  compassion,  over  that 
woman's 'life  so  near  to  his  and  yet  so  remote. 
He  beheld  the  world  changed  for  him  by  the 
certitude  of  ties  that  altered  the  poise  of  hopes 
and  fears,  and  gave  him  a  new  sense  of  fellow- 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  199 


ship,  as  if  under  cover  of  the  night  he  had  joined 
the  wrong  band,  of  wanderers,  and  found  with 
the  rise  of  morning  that  the  tents  of  his  kindred 
were  grouped  far  off.  He  had  a  quivering 
imaginative  sense  of  close  relation  to  the  grand- 
father who  had  been  animated  by  strong  im- 
pulses and  beloved  thoughts,  which  were  now 
perhaps  being  roused  from  their  slumber  within 
himself.  And  through  all  this  passionate  medi- 
tation Mordecai  and  Mirah  were  always  present 
as  beings  who  clasped  hands  with  him  in  sym- 
pathetic silence. 

Of  such  quick,  responsive  fibre  was  Deronda 
made,  under  that  mantle  of  self -controlled 
reserve  into  which  early  experience  had  thrown 
so  much  of  his  young  strength. 

When  the  persistent  ringing  of  a  bell  as  a 
signal  reminded  him  of  the  hour,  he  thought  of 
looking  into  "  Bradshaw,"  and  making  the  brief 
necessary  preparations  for  starting  by  the  next 
train,  —  thought  of  it,  but  made  no  movement 
in  consequence.  Wishes  went  to  Mainz  and 
what  he  was  to  get  possession  of  there,  —  to 
London  and  the  beings  there  who  made  the 
strongest  attachments  of  his  life;  but  there  were 
other  wishes  that  clung  in  these  moments  to 
Genoa,  and  they  kept  him  where  he  was  by  that 
force  which  urges  us  to  linger  over  an  interview 
that  carries  a  presentiment  of  final  farewell  or 
of  overshadowing  sorrow.  Deronda  did  not 
formally  say,  "  I  will  stay  over  to-night,  because 
it  is  Friday,  and  T  should  like  to  go  to  the  even- 
ing service  at  the  synagogue  where  they  must 
all  have  gone ;  and  besides,  I  may  see  the  Grand- 
courts  again."    But  simply,  instead  of  packing 


200  DANIEL  DERONDA 


and  ringing  for  his  bill,  he  sat  doing  nothing 
at  all,  while  his  mind  went  to  the  synagogue  and 
saw  faces  there  probably  little  different  from 
those  of  his  grandfather's  time,  and  heard  the 
Spanish-Hebrew  liturgy  which  had  lasted 
through  the  seasons  of  wandering  generations 
like  a  plant  with  wandering  seed,  that  gives  the 
far-off  lands  a  kinship  to  the  exile's  home,  — 
while,  also,  his  mind  went  towards  Gwendolen, 
with  anxious  remembrance  of  what  had  been, 
and  with  a  half-admitted  impression  that  it  would 
be  hardness  in  him  willingly  to  go  away  at  once 
without  making  some  effort,  in  spite  of  Grand- 
court's  probable  dislike,  to  manifest  the  continu- 
ance of  his  sympathy  with  her  since  their  abrupt 
parting. 

In  this  state  of  mind  he  deferred  departure, 
■  ate  his  dinner  without  sense  of  flavour,  rose  from 
it  quickly  to  find  the  synagogue,  and  in  passing 
the  porter  asked  if  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grandcourt 
were  still  in  the  hotel,  and  what  was  the  number 
of  their  apartment.  The  porter  gave  him  the 
number,  but  added  that  they  were  gone  out 
boating.  That  information  had  somehow  power 
enough  over  Deronda  to  divide  his  thoughts  with 
the  memories  wakened  among  the  sparse  talithim 
and  keen  dark  faces  of  worshippers  whose  way 
of  taking  awful  prayers  and  invocations  with  the 
easy  familiarity  which  might  be  called  Hebrew 
dyed  Italian,  made  him  reflect  that  his  grand- 
father, according  to  the  Princess's  hints  of  his 
character,  must  have  been  almost  as  exceptional 
a  Jew  as  Mordecai.  But  were  not  men  of  ardent 
zeal  and  far-reaching  hope  everywhere  excep- 
tional ?  —  the  men  who  had  the  visions  which,  as 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  201 


Mordecai  said,  were  the  creators  and  feeders  of 
the  world,  —  moulding  and  feeding  the  more 
passive  life  which  without  them  would  dwindle 
and  shrivel  into  the  narrow  tenacity  of  insects, 
unshaken  by  thoughts  beyond  the  reaches  of 
their  antennae.  Something  of  a  mournful  impa- 
tience perhaps  added  itself  to  ihe  solicitude  about 
Gwendolen  (a  solicitude  that  had  room  to  grow 
in  his  present  release  from  immediate  cares)  as 
an  incitement  to  hasten  from  the  synagogue  and 
choose  to  take  his  evening  walk  towards  the 
quay,  always  a  favourite  haunt  with  him,  and 
just  now  attractive  with  the  possibility  that  he 
might  be  in  time  to  see  the  Grandcourts  come  in 
from  their  boating.  In  this  case  he  resolved  that 
he  would  advance  to  greet  them  deliberately, 
and  ignore  any  grounds  that  the  husband  might 
have  for  wishing  him  elsewhere. 

The  sun  had  set  behind  a  bank  of  cloud,  and 
only  a  faint  yellow  light  was  giving  its  farewell 
kisses  to  the  waves,  which  were  agitated  by 
an  active  breeze.  Deronda,  sauntering  slowly 
within  sight  of  what  took  place  on  the  strand, 
observed  the  groups  there  concentrating  their 
attention  on  a  sailing-boat  which  was  advancing 
swiftly  landward,  being  rowed  by  two  men. 
Amidst  the  clamorous  talk  in  various  languages, 
Deronda  held  it  the  surer  means  of  getting  in- 
formation not  to  ask  questions,  but  to  elbow  his 
way  to  the  foreground  and  be  an  unobstructed 
witness  of  what  was  occurring.  Telescopes  were 
being  used,  and  loud  statements  made  that  the 
boat  held  somebody  who  had  been  drowned. 
One  said  it  was  the  milord  who  had  gone  out  in 
a  sailing-boat ;  another  maintained  that  the  pros- 


202  DANIEL  DERONDA 


trate  figure  he  discerned  was  milad'i;  a  French- 
man who  had  no  glass  would  rather  say  that  it 
was  milord  who  had  probably  taken  his  wife  out 
to  drown  her,  according  to  the  national  prac- 
tice, —  a  remark  which  an  English  skipper  im- 
mediately commented  on  in  our  native  idiom 
( as  nonsense  which  —  had  undergone  a  mining 
operation) ,  and  further  dismissed  by  the  deci- 
sion that  the  reclining  figure  was  a  woman.  For 
Deronda,  terribly  excited  by  fluctuating  fears, 
the  strokes  of  the  oars  as  he  watched  them  were 
divided  by  swift  visions  of  events,  possible  and 
impossible,  which  might  have  brought  about  this 
issue,  or  this  broken-off  fragment  of  an  issue, 
with  a  worse  half  undisclosed,  —  if  this  woman 
apparently  snatched  from  the  waters  w^ere  really 
Mrs.  Grandcourt. 

But  soon  there  was  no  longer  any  doubt :  the 
boat  was  being  pulled  to  land,  and  he  saw  Gwen- 
dolen half  raising  herself  on  her  hands,  by  her  own 
effort,  under  her  heavy  covering  of  tarpaulin 
and  pea-jackets,  —  pale  as  one  of  the  sheeted 
dead,  shivering,  ^vdth  wet  hair  streaming,  a  wild 
amazed  consciousness  in  her  eyes,  as  if  she  had 
waked  up  in  a  world  where  some  judgment  was 
impending,  and  the  beings  she  saw^  around  were 
coming  to  seize  her.  The  first  rower  who  jumped 
to  land  was  also  wxt  tln^ough,  and  ran  off ;  the 
sailors,  close  about  the  boat,  hindered  Deronda 
from  advancing,  and  he  could  only  look  on  while 
Gwendolen  gave  scared  glances,  and  seemed  to 
shrink  wdth  terror  as  she  was  carefully,  tenderly 
helped  out,  and  led  on  by  the  strong  arms  of 
those  rough,  bronzed  men,  her  wet  clothes  cling- 
ing about  her  limbs,  and  adding  to  the  impedi- 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  203 


merit  of  her  weakness.  Suddenly  her  wandering 
eyes  fell  on  Deronda,  standing  before  her;  and 
immediately,  as  if  she  had  been  expecting  him 
and  looking  for  him,  she  tried  to  stretch  out  her 
arms,  which  were  held  back  by  her  supporters, 
saying  in  a  muffled  voice,  — 

"  It  is  come,  it  is  come!   He  is  dead!  " 

"Hush,  hush!"  said  Deronda,  in  a  tone  of 
authority;  "  quiet  yourself."  Then  to  the  men 
who  were  assisting  her,  "  I  am  a  connection  of 
this  lady's  husband.  If  you  will  get  her  on  to 
the  Italia  as  quickly  as  possible,  I  will  undertake 
everything  else." 

He  stayed  behind  to  hear  from  the  remaining 
boatman  that  her  husband  had  gone  down  irre- 
coverably, and  that  his  boat  was  left  floating 
empty.  He  and  his  comrade  had  heard  a  cry, 
had  come  up  in  time  to  see  the  lady  jump  in  after 
her  husband,  and  had  got  her  out  fast  enough 
to  save  her  from  much  damage. 

After  this,  Deronda  hastened  to  the  hotel,  to 
assure  himself  that  the  best  medical  help  would 
be  provided;  and  being  satisfied  on  this  point, 
he  telegraphed  the  event  to  Sir  Hugo,  begging 
him  to  come  forthwith,  and  also  to  Mr.  Gas- 
coigne,  whose  address  at  the  Rectory  made  his 
nearest  known  way  of  getting  the  information 
to  Gwendolen's  mother.  Certain  words  of 
Gwendolen's  in  the  past  had  come  back  to  him 
with  the  effectiveness  of  an  inspiration:  in  mo- 
ments of  agitated  confession  she  had  spoken  of 
her  mother's  presence  as  a  possible  help,  if  she 
could  have  had  it. 


CHAPTER  VII 


The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they  died. 

Had  never  passed  away: 
I  could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  theirs. 

Nor  lift  them  up  to  pray, 

Coleridge. 

DERONDA  did  not  take  off  his  clothes 
that  night.  Gwendolen,  after  insisting 
on  seeing  him  again  before  she  would 
consent  to  be  undrest,  had  been  perfectly  quiet, 
and  had  only  asked  him,  with  a  whispering,  re- 
pressed eagerness,  to  promise  that  he  would  come 
to  her  when  she  sent  for  him  in  the  morning. 
Still,  the  possibility  that  a  change  might  come 
over  her,  the  danger  of  a  supervening  feverish 
condition,  and  the  suspicion  that  something  in 
the  late  catastrophe  was  having  an  effect  which 
might  betray  itself  in  excited  words,  acted  as  a 
foreboding  within  him.  He  mentioned  to  her 
attendant  that  he  should  keep  himself  ready  to 
be  called  if  there  were  any  alarming  change  of 
symptoms,  making  it  understood  by  all  con- 
cerned that  he  was  in  communication  with  her 
friends  in  England,  and  felt  bound  meanwhile 
to  take  all  care  on  her  behalf,  —  a  position  which 
it  was  the  easier  for  him  to  assume,  because  he 
was  well  known  to  Grandcourt's  valet,  the  only 
old  servant  who  had  come  on  the  late  voyage. 

But  when  fatigue  from  the  strangely  various 
emotions  of  the  day  at  last  sent  Deronda  to  sleep, 
he  remained  undisturbed  except  by  the  morning 
dreams  which  came  as  a  tangled  web  of  yester- 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  205 


day's  events,  and  finally  waked  him  with  an 
image  drawn  by  his  pressing  anxiety. 

Still  it  was  morning,  and  there  had  been  no 
summons,  —  an  augury  which  cheered  him  while 
he  made  his  toilet,  and  reflected  that  it  was  too 
early  to  send  inquiries.  Later,  he  learned  that 
she  had  passed  a  too  wakeful  night,  but  had 
shown  no  violent  signs  of  agitation,  and  was  at 
last  sleeping.  He  wondered  at  the  force  that 
dwelt  in  this  creature,  so  alive  to  dread;  for  he 
had  an  irresistible  impression  that  even  under  the 
effects  of  a  severe  physical  shock  she  was  master- 
ing herself  with  a  determination  of  concealment. 
For  his  own  part,  he  thought  that  his  sensibilities 
had  been  blunted  by  what  he  had  been  going 
through  in  the  meeting  with  his  mother:  he 
seemed  to  himself  now  to  be  only  fulfilling 
claims,  and  his  more  passionate  sympathy  was 
in  abeyance.  He  had  lately  been  living  so  keenly 
in  an  experience  quite  apart  from  Gwendolen's 
lot,  that  his  present  cares  for  her  were  like  a  re- 
visiting of  scenes  familiar  in  the  past,  and  there 
was  not  yet  a  complete  revival  of  the  inward 
response  to  them. 

Meanwhile  he  employed  himself  in  getting  a 
formal,  legally  recognized  statement  from  the 
fishermen  who  had  rescued  Gwendolen.  Few 
details  came  to  light.  The  boat  in  which  Grand- 
court  had  gone  out  had  been  found  drifting  with 
its  sail  loose,  and  had  been  towed  in.  The  fisher- 
men thought  it  likely  that  he  had  been  knocked 
overboard  by  the  flapping  of  the  sail  while  put- 
ting about,  and  that  he  had  not  known  how  to 
swim;  but  though  they  were  near,  their  atten- 
tion had  been  first  arrested  by  a  cry  which 


206  DANIEL  DERONDA 


seemed  like  that  of  a  man  in  distress,  and 
while  they  were  hastening  with  their  oars,  they 
heard  a  shriek  from  the  lady  and  saw  her 
jump  in. 

On  re-entering  the  hotel,  Deronda  was  told 
that  Gwendolen  had  risen,  and  was  desiring  to 
see  him.  He  was  shown  into  a  room  darkened 
by  blinds  and  curtains,  where  she  was  seated 
with  a  white  shawl  wrapped  round  her,  looking 
towards  the  opening  door  like  one  waiting  un- 
easily. But  her  long  hair  was  gathered  up  and 
coiled  carefully,  and,  through  all,  the  blue  stars 
in  her  ears  had  kept  their  place:  as  she  started 
impulsively  to  her  full  height,  sheathed  in  her 
white  shawl,  her  face  and  neck  not  less  white, 
except  for  a  purple  line  under  her  eyes,  her  lips 
a  little  apart  with  the  peculiar  expression  of  one 
accused  and  helpless,  she  looked  like  the  un- 
happy ghost  of  that  Gwendolen  Harleth  whom 
Deronda  had  seen  turning  with  firm  lips  and 
proud  self-possession  from  her  losses  at  the 
gaming-table.  The  sight  pierced  him  with  pity, 
and  the  effects  of  all  their  past  relation  began  to 
revive  within  him. 

"  I  beseech  you  to  rest  —  not  to  stand,"  said 
Deronda,  as  he  approached  her;  and  she  obeyed, 
falling  back  into  her  chair  again. 

"  Will  you  sit  down  near  me?  "  she  said.  "  I 
want  to  speak  very  low." 

She  was  in  a  large  arm-chair,  and  he  drew  a 
small  one  near  to  her  side.  The  action  seemed 
to  touch  her  peculiarly;  turning  her  pale  face 
full  upon  his,  which  was  very  near,  she  said,  in 
the  lowest  audible  tone,  "  You  know  I  am  a 
guilty  woman? " 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  207 


Deronda  himself  turned  paler  as  he  said, 
"  I  know  nothing."  He  did  not  dare  to  say 
more. 

"  He  is  dead."  She  uttered  this  with  the  same 
undertoned  decision. 

"  Yes,"  said  Deronda,  in  a  mournful  suspense 
which  made  him  reluctant  to  speak. 

"  His  face  will  not  be  seen  above  the  water 
again,"  said  Gwendolen,  in  a  tone  that  was  not 
louder,  but  of  a  suppressed  eagerness,  while  she 
held  both  her  hands  clenched. 

"  No." 

"  Not  by  any  one  else  —  only  by  me  —  a  dead 
face  —  I  shall  never  get  away  from  it." 

It  was  with  an  inward  voice  of  desperate  self- 
repression  that  she  spoke  these  last  words,  while 
she  looked  away  from  Deronda  towards  some- 
thing at  a  distance  from  her  on  the  floor.  Was 
she  seeing  the  whole  event  —  her  own  acts  in- 
cluded —  through  an  exaggerating  medium  of 
excitement  and  horror?  Was  she  in  a  state 
of  delirium  into  which  there  entered  a  sense  of 
concealment  and  necessity  for  self -repression? 
Such  thoughts  glanced  through  Deronda  as  a 
sort  of  hope.  But  imagine  the  conflict  of  feel- 
ing that  kept  him  silent.  She  was  bent  on  con- 
fession, and  he  dreaded  hearing  her  confession. 
Against  his  better  will,  he  shrank  from  the  task 
that  was  laid  on  him:  he  wished,  and  yet  re- 
buked the  wish  as  cowardly,  that  she  could  bury 
her  secrets  in  her  own  bosom.  He  was  not  a 
priest.  He  dreaded  the  weight  of  this  woman's 
soul  flung  upon  his  own  with  imploring  depend- 
ence. But  she  spoke  again  hurriedly,  looking 
at  him,  — • 


^08         DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  You  will  not  say  that  I  ought  to  tell  the 
world?  You  will  not  say  that  I  ought  to  be 
disgraced?  I  could  not  do  it.  I  could  not  bear 
it.  I  cannot  have  my  mother  know.  Not  if  I 
were  dead.  I  could  not  have  her  know.  I  must 
tell  you;  but  you  will  not  say  that  any  one  else 
should  know." 

"  I  can  say  nothing  in  my  ignorance,"  said 
Deronda,  mournfully,  "  except  that  I  desire  to 
help  you." 

"  I  told  you  from  the  beginning  —  as  soon  as 
I  could  —  I  told  you  I  was  afraid  of  myself." 
There  was  a  piteous  pleading  in  the  low  mur- 
mur to  which  Deronda  turned  his  ear  only.  Her 
face  afflicted  him  too  much.  "I  felt  a  hatred 
in  me  that  was  always  working  like  an  evil  spirit 
—  contriving  things.  Everything  I  could  do  to 
free  myself  came  into  my  mind;  and  it  got 
worse  —  all  things  got  worse.  That  was  why 
I  asked  you  to  come  to  me  in  town.  I  thought 
then  I  would  tell  you  the  worst  about  myself. 
I  tried.  But  I  could  not  tell  everything.  And 
he  came  in." 

She  paused,  while  a  shudder  passed  through 
her;  but  soon  went  on. 

"  I  will  tell  you  everything  now.  Do  you 
think  a  woman  who  cried,  and  prayed,  and 
struggled  to  be  saved  from  herself,  could  be 
a  murderess?  " 

"  Great  God!  "  said  Deronda,  in  a  deep  shaken 
voice,  "  don't  torture  me  needlessly.  You  have 
not  murdered  him.  You  threw  yourself  into  the 
water  with  the  impulse  to  save  him.  Tell  me  the 
rest  afterwards.  This  death  was  an  accident 
that  you  could  not  have  hindered." 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  209 

"  Don't  be  impatient  with  me."  The  tremor, 
the  childhke  beseeching  in  these  words  com- 
pelled Deronda  to  turn  his  head  and  look  at 
her  face.  The  poor  quivering  lips  went  on. 
"  You  said  —  you  used  to  say  —  you  felt  more 
for  those  who  had  done  something  wicked  and 
were  miserable;  you  said  they  might  get  better 

—  they  might  be  scourged  into  something  better. 
If  you  had  not  spoken  in  that  way,  everything 
would  have  been  worse.  I  did  remember  all 
you  said  to  me.  It  came  to  me  always.  It 
came  to  me  at  the  very  last  —  that  was  the 
reason  why  I  —  But  now,  if  you  cannot  bear 
with  me  when  I  tell  you  everything  —  if  you 
turn  away  from  me  and  forsake  me,  what  shall 
I  do?  Am  I  worse  than  I  was  when  you  found 
me  and  wanted  to  make  me  better?  All  the 
wrong  I  have  done  was  in  me  then  —  and  more 

—  and  more  —  if  you  had  not  come  and  been 
patient  with  me.  And  now  —  will  you  forsake 
me?" 

Her  hands,  which  had  been  so  tightly  clenched 
some  minutes  before,  were  now  helplessh^  re- 
laxed and  trembling  on  the  arm  of  her  chair. 
Her  quivering  lips  remained  parted  as  she  ceased 
speaking.  Deronda  could  not  answer;  he  was 
obliged  to  look  away.  He  took  one  of  her  hands, 
and  clasped  it  as  if  they  were  going  to  walk 
together  like  two  children:  it  was  the  only  way 
in  which  he  could  answer,  "  I  will  not  forsake 
you."  And  all  the  while  he  felt  as  if  he  were 
putting  his  name  to  a  blank  paper  which  might 
be  filled  up  terribly.  Their  attitude,  his  averted 
face  with  its  expression  of  a  suffering  which  he 
was  solem^nly  resolved  to  undergo,  might  have 

VOL.  XIV  — 14 


210  DANIEL  DERONDA 


told  half  the  truth  of  the  situation  to  a  beholder 
who  had  suddenly  entered. 

That  grasp  was  an  entirely  new  experience  to 
Gwendolen :  she  had  never  before  had  from  any 
man  a  sign  of  tenderness  which  her  own  being 
had  needed,  and  she  interpreted  its  powerful 
effect  on  her  into  a  promise  of  inexhaustible 
patience  and  constancy.  The  stream  of  renewed 
strength  made  it  possible  for  her  to  go  on  as 
she  had  begun,  —  with  that  fitful,  wandering 
confession  where  the  sameness  of  experience 
seems  to  nullify  the  sense  of  time  or  of  order 
in  events.  She  began  again  in  a  fragmentary 
way:  — 

"  All  sort  of  contrivances  in  my  mind  —  but 
all  so  difficult.  And  I  fought  against  them  — 
I  was  terrified  at  them  —  I  saw  his  dead  face  " 
—  here  her  voice  sank  almost  to  a  whisper  close 
to  Deronda's  ear  — ever  so  long  ago  I  saw 
it;  and  I  wished  him  to  be  dead.  And  yet  it 
terrified  me.  I  was  like  two  creatures.  I  could 
not  speak  —  I  wanted  to  kill  —  it  was  as  strong 
as  thirst  —  and  then  directly  —  I  felt  before- 
hand I  had  done  something  dreadful,  unalter- 
able—  that  would  make  me  like  an  evil  spirit. 
And  it  came  —  it  came." 

She  was  silent  a  moment  or  two,  as  if  her 
memory  had  lost  itself  in  a  web  where  each 
mesh  drew  all  the  rest. 

"  It  had  all  been  in  my  mind  when  I  first 
spoke  to  you  —  when  we  were  at  the  Abbey. 
I  had  done  something  then.  I  could  not  tell 
you  that.  It  was  the  only  thing  I  did  towards 
carrying  out  my  thoughts.  They  went  about 
over  everything;  but  they  all  remained  like 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  211 


dreadful  dreams,  —  all  but  one.    I  did  one  act 

—  and  I  never  undid  it  —  it  is  there  still  —  as 
long  ago  as  when  we  were  at  Ry elands.  There 
it  was — something  my  fingers  longed  for  among 
the  beautiful  toys  in  the  cabinet  in  my  boudoir 

—  small  and  sharp,  like  a  long  willow  leaf  in  a 
silver  sheath.  I  locked  it  in  the  drawer  of  my 
dressing-case.  I  was  continually  haunted  with 
it,  and  how  I  should  use  it.  I  fancied  myself 
putting  it  under  my  pillow.  But  I  never  did. 
I  never  looked  at  it  again.  I  dared  not  unlock 
the  drawer :  it  had  a  key  all  to  itself ;  and  not 
long  ago  when  we  were  in  the  yacht,  I  dropped 
the  key  into  the  deep  water.  It  was  my  wish 
to  drop  it  and  dehver  myself.  After  that  I 
began  to  think  how  I  could  open  the  drawer 
without  the  key;  and  when  I  found  we  were 
to  stay  at  Genoa,  it  came  into  my  mind  that  I 
could  get  it  opened  privately  at  the  hotel.  But 
then,  when  we  were  going  up  the  stairs,  I  met 
you;  and  I  thought  I  should  talk  to  you  alone 
and  tell  you  this,  —  everything  I  could  not  tell 
you  in  town;  and  then  I  was  forced  to  go  out 
in  the  boat." 

A  sob  had  for  the  first  time  risen  with  the 
last  words,  and  she  sank  back  in  her  chair.  The 
memory  of  that  acute  disappointment  seemed 
for  the  moment  to  efface  what  had  come  since. 
Deronda  did  not  look  at  her,  but  he  said 
insistently,  — 

"  And  it  has  all  remained  in  your  imagina- 
tion. It  has  gone  on  only  in  your  thought.  To 
the  last  the  evil  temptation  has  been  resisted?  " 

There  was  silence.  The  tears  had  rolled 
down  her  cheeks.   She  pressed  her  handkerchief 


212  DANIEL  DERONDA 


against  them  and  sat  upright.  She  was  sum- 
moning her  resolution;  and  again,  leaning  a 
little  towards  Deronda's  ear,  she  began  in  a 
whisper,  — 

"  No,  no;  I  will  tell  you  everything  as  God 
knows  it.  I  will  tell  you  no  falsehood;  I  will 
tell  you  the  exact  truth.  What  should  I  do  else  ? 
I  used  to  think  I  could  never  be  wicked.  I 
thought  of  wicked  people  as  if  they  were  a  long 
way  off  me.  Since  then  I  have  been  wicked. 
I  have  felt  wicked.  And  everything  has  been 
a  punishment  to  me,  —  all  the  things  I  used  to 
wish  for,  —  it  is  as  if  they  had  been  made  red- 
hot.  The  very  daylight  has  often  been  a  pun- 
ishment to  me.  Because  —  you  know  —  I  ought 
not  to  have  married.  That  was  the  beginning 
of  it.  I  wronged  some  one  else.  I  broke  my 
promise.  I  meant  to  get  pleasure  for  myself, 
and  it  all  turned  to  misery.  I  wanted  to  make 
my  gain  out  of  another's  loss  —  you  remember? 

—  it  was  like  roulette  —  and  the  money  burnt 
into  me.  And  I  could  not  complain.  It  was 
as  if  I  had  prayed  that  another  should  lose  and 
I  should  win.    And  I  had  won.    I  knew  it  all 

—  I  knew  I  was  guilty.  When  we  were  on  the 
sea,  and  I  lay  awake  at  night  in  the  cabin,  I 
sometimes  felt  that  everything  I  had  done  lay 
open  without  excuse  —  nothing  was  hidden  — 
how  could  anything  be  known  to  me  only?  —  it 
was  not  my  own  knowledge,  it  was  God's  that 
had  entered  into  me,  and  even  the  stillness  — 
everything  held  a  punishment  for  me  —  every- 
thing but  you.  I  always  thought  that  you  would 
not  want  me  to  be  punished  —  you  would  have 
tried  and  helped  me  to  be  better.    And  only 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  213 


thinking  of  that  helped  me.  You  will  not  change 
—  you  will  not  want  to  punish  me  now^?  " 
Again  a  sob  had  risen. 

"God  forbid!"  groaned  Deronda.  But  he 
sat  motionless. 

This  long  wandering  with  the  poor  conscience- 
stricken  one  over  her  past  was  difficult  to  bear, 
but  he  dared  not  again  urge  her  with  a  question. 
He  must  let  her  mind  follow  its  own  need.  She 
unconsciously  left  intervals  in  her  retrospect,  not 
clearly  distinguishing  between  what  she  said  and 
what  she  had  only  an  inward  vision  of.  Her 
next  words  came  after  such  an  interval. 

"  That  all  made  it  so  hard  when  I  was  forced 
to  go  in  the  boat.  Because  when  I  saw  you  it 
was  an  unexpected  joy,  and  I  thought  I  could 
tell  you  everything  —  about  the  locked-up 
drawer  and  what  I  had  not  told  you  before. 
And  if  I  had  told  you,  and  knew  it  was  in  your 
mind,  it  would  have  less  power  over  me.  I 
hoped  and  trusted  in  that.  For  after  all  my 
struggles  and  my  crying,  the  hatred  and  rage, 
the  temptation  that  frightened  me,  the  longing, 
the  thirst  for  what  I  dreaded,  always  came  back. 
And  that  disappointment  —  when  I  was  quite 
shut  out  from  speaking  to  you,  and  I  was  driven 
to  go  in  the  boat  —  brought  all  the  evil  back, 
as  if  I  had  been  locked  in  a  prison  with  it  and 
no  escape.  Oh,  it  seems  so  long  ago  now  since 
I  stepped  into  that  boat!  I  could  have  given 
up  everything  in  that  moment,  to  have  the 
forked  lightning  for  a  weapon  to  strike  him 
dead." 

Some  of  the  compressed  fierceness  that  she 
was  recalhng  seemed  to  find  its  way  into  her 


214  DANIEL  DERONDA 


undertoned  utterance.  After  a  little  silence  she 
said,  with  agitated  hurry,  — 

"  If  he  were  here  again,  what  should  I  do? 
I  cannot  wish  him  here  —  and  yet  I  cannot  bear 
his  dead  face.  I  was  a  coward.  I  ought  to 
have  borne  contempt.  I  ought  to  have  gone 
away,  —  gone  and  wandered  like  a  beggar  rather 
than  stay  to  feel  like  a  fiend.  But  turn  where 
I  would  there  was  something  I  could  not  bear. 
Sometimes  I  thought  he  would  kill  me  if  I  re- 
sisted his  will.  But  now  —  his  dead  face  is  there, 
and  I  cannot  bear  it." 

Suddenly  loosing  Deronda's  hand,  she  started 
up,  stretching  her  arms  to  their  full  length  up- 
ward, and  said  with  a  sort  of  moan,  — 

"I  have  been  a  cruel* woman!  What  can  I 
do  but  cry  for  help?  I  am  sinking.  Die  — 
die  —  you  are  forsaken  —  go  down,  go  down 
into  darkness.  Forsaken  —  no  pity  —  I  shall 
be  forsaken." 

She  sank  in  her  chair  again  and  broke  into 
sobs.  Even  Deronda  had  no  place  in  her  con- 
sciousness at  that  moment.  He  was  completely 
unmanned.  Instead  of  finding,  as  he  had  im- 
agined, that  his  late  experience  had  dulled  his 
susceptibility  to  fresh  emotion,  it  seemed  that 
the  lot  of  this  young  creature,  whose  swift  travel 
from  her  bright  rash  girlhood  into  this  agony 
of  remorse  he  had  had  to  behold  in  helplessness, 
pierced  him  the  deeper  because  it  came  close 
upon  another  sad  revelation  of  spiritual  conflict : 
he  was  in  one  of  those  moments  when  the  very 
anguish  of  passionate  pity  makes  us  ready  to 
choose  that  we  will  know  pleasure  no  more,  and 
live  only  for  the  stricken  and  afflicted.   He  had 

1 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  215 


risen  from  his  seat  while  he  watched  that  ter- 
rible outburst,  —  which  seemed  the  more  awful 
to  him  because,  even  in  this  supreme  agita- 
tion, she  kept  the  suppressed  voice  of  one  who 
confesses  in  secret.  At  last  he  felt  impelled 
to  turn  his  back  towards  her  and  walk  to  a 
distance. 

But  presently  there  was  stillness.  Her  mind 
had  opened  to  the  sense  that  he  had  gone  away 
from  her.  When  Deronda  turned  round  to 
approach  her  again,  he  saw  her  face  bent  towards 
him,  her  eyes  dilated,  her  lips  parted.  She  was 
an  image  of  timid  forlorn  beseeching,  —  too 
timid  to  entreat  in  words  while  he  kept  himself 
aloof  from  her.  Was  she  forsaken  by  him  — 
now  —  already?  But  his  eyes  met  hers  sorrow- 
fully, —  met  hers  for  the  first  time  fully  since 
she  had  said,  "  You  know  I  am  a  guilty 
woman;  "  and  that  full  glance  in  its  intense 
mournfulness  seemed  to  say,  "  I  know  it,  but 
I  shall  all  the  less  forsake  you."  He  sat  down 
by  her  side  again  in  the  same  attitude,  —  with- 
out turning  his  face  towards  her  and  without 
again  taking  her  hand. 

Once  more  Gwendolen  was  pierced,  as  she  had 
been  by  his  face  of  sorrow  at  the  Abbey,  with 
a  compunction  less  egoistic  than  that  which 
urged  her  to  confess,  and  she  said,  in  a  tone 
of  loving  regret,  — 

"  I  make  you  very  unhappy." 

Deronda  gave  an  indistinct  "  Oh,"  just  shrink- 
ing together  and  changing  his  attitude  a  little. 
Then  he  had  gathered  resolution  enough  to  say 
clearly:  "  There  is  no  question  of  being  happy 
or  unhappy.    What  I  most  desire  at  this  mo- 


216  DANIEL  DERONDA 


ment  is  what  will  most  help  you.  Tell  me  all 
you  feel  it  a  relief  to  tell." 

Devoted  as  these  words  were,  they  widened 
his  spiritual  distance  from  her,  and  she  felt  it 
more  difficult  to  speak:  she  had  a  vague  need 
of  getting  nearer  to  that  compassion  which 
seemed  to  be  regarding  her  from  a  halo  of 
superiority,  and  the  need  turned  into  an  im- 
pulse to  humble  herself  more.  She  was  ready 
to  throw  herself  on  her  knees  before  him;  but 
no  —  her  wonderfully  mixed  consciousness  held 
checks  on  that  impulse,  and  she  was  kept  silent 
and  motionless  by  the  pressure  of  opposing 
needs.  Her  stillness  made  Deronda  at  last 
say,  — 

"  Perhaps  you  are  too  weary.  Shall  I  go 
away,  and  come  again  whenever  you  wish  it?  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  Gwendolen,  —  the  dread  of  his 
leaving  her  bringing  back  her  power  of  speech. 
She  went  on  with  her  low-toned  eagerness:  "  I 
want  to  tell  you  what  it  was  that  came  over  me 
in  that  boat.  I  was  full  of  rage  at  being  obliged 
to  go,  —  full  of  rage,  —  and  I  could  do  nothing 
but  sit  there  like  a  galley-slave.  And  then  we 
got  away  —  out  of  the  port  —  into  the  deep  — 
and  everything  was  still  —  and  we  never  looked 
at  each  other,  only  he  spoke  to  order  me  —  and 
the  very  light  about  me  seemed  to  hold  me  a 
prisoner  and  force  me  to  sit  as  I  did.  It  came 
over  me  that  when  I  was  a  child  I  used  to  fancy 
sailing  away  into  a  world  where  people  were  not 
forced  to  live  with  any  one  they  did  not  like  — 
I  did  not  like  my  father-in-law  to  come  home. 
And  now,  I  thought,  just  the  opposite  had  come 
to  me.   I  had  stept  into  a  boat,  and  my  life  was 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  21T 


a  sailing  and  sailing  away  —  gliding  on  and  no 
help  —  always  into  solitude  with  him,  away  from 
dehverance.  And  because  I  felt  more  helpless 
than  ever,  my  thoughts  went  out  over  worse 
things  —  I  longed  for  worse  things  —  I  had 
cruel  wishes  —  I  fancied  impossible  ways  of  — 
I  did  not  want  to  die  myself;  I  was  afraid  of 
our  being  drowned  together.  If  it  had  been 
any  use,  I  should  have  prayed  —  I  should  have 
prayed  that  something  might  befall  him.  I 
should  have  prayed  that  he  might  sink  out  of 
my  sight  and  leave  me  alone.  I  knew  no  way 
of  killing  him  there,  but  I  did,  I  did  kill  him  in 
my  thoughts." 

She  sank  into  silence  for  a  minute,  submerged 
by  the  weight  of  memory  which  no  words  could 
represent. 

"But  yet  all  the  while  I  felt  that  I  was  get- 
ting more  wicked.  And  what  had  been  with  me 
so  much,  came  to  me  just  then  —  what  you  once 
said  —  about  dreading  to  increase  my  wrong- 
doing and  my  remorse  —  I  should  hope  for 
nothing  then.  It  was  all  like  a  writing  of  fire 
within  me.  Getting  wicked  was  misery  —  being 
shut  out  forever  from  knowing  what  you  — 
what  better  lives  were.  That  had  always  been 
coming  back  to  me  in  the  midst  of  bad  thoughts 
—  it  came  back  to  me  then  —  but  yet  with  a 
despair  —  a  feeling  that  it  was  no  use  —  evil 
wishes  were  too  strong.  I  remember  then  let- 
ting go  the  tiller  and  saying  '  God  help  me ! ' 
But  then  I  was  forced  to  take  it  again  and  go 
on ;  and  the  evil  longings,  the  evil  prayers  came 
again  and  blotted  everything  else  dim,  till,  in 
the  midst  of  them  —  I  don't  know  how  it  was 


218  DANIEL  DERONDA 


—  he  was  turning  the  sail  —  there  was  a  gust  { 

—  he  was  struck  —  I  know  nothing  —  I  only 
know  that  I  saw  my  wish  outside  me." 

She  began  to  speak  more  hurriedly,  and  in  ^; 
more  of  a  whisper. 

"  I  saw  him  sink,  and  my  heart  gave  a  leap  "i 
as  if  it  were  going  out  of  me.    I  think  I  did  not  i 
move.    I  kept  my  hands  tight.    It  was  long  ' 
enough  for  me  to  be  glad,  and  yet  to  think  it 
was  no  use  —  he  would  come  up  again.    And  \ 
he  was  come  —  farther  off  —  the  boat  had  moved. 
It  was  all  like  lightning.   '  The  rope ! '  he  called  j 
out  in  a  voice  —  not  his  own  —  I  hear  it  now  —  ' 
and  I  stooped  for  the  rope  —  I  felt  I  must  —  ■ 
I  felt  sure  he  could  swim,  and  he  would  come  \ 
back  whether  or  not,  and  I  dreaded  him.  That 
was  in  my  mind  —  he  would  come  back.    But  J 
he  was  gone  down  again,  and  I  had  the  rope  ] 
in  my  hand  —  no,  there  he  was  again  —  his  face 
above  the  water  —  and  he  cried  again  —  and  I  j 
held  my  hand,  and  my  heart  said,  '  Die ! '  —  and  ] 
he  sank;  and  I  felt  '  It  is  done  —  I  am  wicked,  ] 
I  am  lost ! '  —  and  I  had  the  rope  in  my  hand  ] 

—  I  don't  know  what  I  thought  —  I  was  leap-  i 
ing  away  from  myself  —  I  would  have  saved  ! 
him  then.  I  was  leaping  from  my  crime,  and  | 
there  it  was  —  close  to  me  as  I  fell  —  there  was  j 
the  dead  face  —  dead,  dead.  It  can  never  be  j 
altered.  That  was  what  happened.  That  was 
what  I  did.  You  know  it  all.  It  can  never  be  > 
altered."  ' 

She  sank  back  in  her  chair,  exhausted  with  the  I 
agitation  of  memory  and  speech.  Deronda  felt  i 
the  burthen  on  his  spirit  less  heavy  than  the  fore-  j 
going  dread.    The  word  "  guilty  "  had  held  a  i 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  219 


possibility  of  interpretations  worse  than  the  fact ; 
and  Gwendolen's  confession,  for  the  very  reason 
that  her  conscience  made  her  dwell  on  the  de- 
termining power  of  her  evil  thoughts,  convinced 
him  the  more  that  there  had  been  throughout  a 
counterbalancing  struggle  of  her  better  will. 
It  seemed  almost  certain  that  her  murderous 
thought  had  had  no  outward  effect,  —  that,  quite 
apart  from  it,  the  death  was  inevitable.  Still, 
a  question  as  to  the  outward  effectiveness  of  a 
criminal  desire  dominant  enough  to  impel  even 
a  momentary  act,  cannot  alter  our  judgment  of 
the  desire;  and  Deronda  shrank  from  putting 
that  question  forward  in  the  first  instance.  He 
held  it  likely  that  Gwendolen's  remorse  aggra- 
vated her  inward  guilt,  and  that  she  gave  the 
character  of  decisive  action  to  what  had  been 
an  inappreciably  instantaneous  glance  of  desire. 
But  her  remorse  was  the  precious  sign  of  a  re- 
coverable nature ;  it  was  the  culmination  of  that 
self-disapproval  which  had  been  the  awakening 
of  a  new  life  within  her;  it  marked  her  off  from 
the  criminals  whose  only  regret  is  failure  in 
securing  their  evil  wish.  Deronda  could  not 
utter  one  word  to  diminish  that  sacred  aversion 
to  her  worst  self,  —  that  thorn-pressure  which 
must  come  with  the  crowning  of  the  sorrowful 
Better,  suffering  because  of  the  Worse.  All  this 
mingled  thought  and  feeling  kept  him  silent; 
speech  was  too  momentous  to  be  ventured  on 
rashly.  There  were  no  words  of  comfort  that 
did  not  carry  some  sacrilege.  If  he  had  opened 
his  lips  to  speak,  he  could  only  have  echoed,  "  It 
can  never  be  altered,  —  it  remains  unaltered,  to 
alter  other  things."    But  he  was  silent  and 


220  DANIEL  DERONDA 


motionless  —  he  did  not  know  how  long  —  be- 
fore he  turned  to  look  at  her,  and  saw  her  sunk 
back  with  closed  eyes,  like  a  lost,  weary,  storm- 
beaten  white  doe,  unable  to  rise  and  pursue  its 
unguided  way.  He  rose  and  stood  before  her. 
The  movement  touched  her  consciousness,  and 
she  opened  her  eyes  with  a  slight  quivering  that 
seemed  like  fear. 

"You  must  rest  now.  Try  to  rest:  try  to 
sleep.  And  may  I  see  you  again  this  evening 
—  to-morrow  —  when  you  have  had  some  rest? 
Let  us  say  no  more  now." 

The  tears  came,  and  she  could  not  answer 
except  by  a  slight  movement  of  the  head.  De- 
ronda  rang  for  attendance,  spoke  urgently  of 
the  necessity  that  she  should  be  got  to  rest,  and 
then  left  her. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


The  unripe  grape,  the  ripe,  and  the  dried.  All  things  are  changes, 
not  into  nothing,  but  into  that  which  is  not  at  present.  —  Marcus 

AURELIUS. 

"Deeds  are  the  pulse  of  Time,  his  beating  life, 
And  righteous  or  unrighteous,  being  done. 
Must  throb  in  after-throbs  till  Time  itself 
Be  laid  in  stillness,  and  the  universe 
Quiver  and  breathe  upon  no  mirror  more." 

IN  the  evening  she  sent  for  him  again.  It  was 
already  near  the  hour  at  which  she  had  been 
brought  in  from  the  sea  the  evening  before, 
and  the  hght  was  subdued  enough  with  bhnds 
drawn  up  and  windows  open.  She  was  seated 
gazing  fixedly  on  the  sea,  resting  her  cheek  on 
her  hand,  looking  less  shattered  than  when  he 
had  left  her,  but  with  a  deep  melancholy  in  her 
expression  which  as  Deronda  approached  her 
passed  into  an  anxious  timidity.  She  did  not 
put  out  her  hand,  but  said,  "  How  long  ago  it 
is!  "  Then,  "  Will  you  sit  near  me  again  a  little 
while?" 

He  placed  himself  by  her  side  as  he  had  done 
before,  and  seeing  that  she  turned  to  him  with 
that  indefinable  expression  which  implies  a  wish 
to  say  something,  he  waited  for  her  to  speak. 
But  again  she  looked  towards  the  window 
silently,  and  again  turned  with  the  same  expres- 
sion, which  yet  did  not  issue  in  speech.  There 
was  some  fear  hindering  her,  and  Deronda, 
wishing  to  relieve  her  timidity,  averted  his  face. 
Presently  he  heard  her  cry  imploringly,  — 


222  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  You  will  not  say  that  any  one  else  should 
know?  " 

"  Most  decidedly  not,"  said  Deronda.  "  There 
is  no  action  that  ought  to  be  taken  in  conse- 
quence. There  is  no  injury  that  could  be  righted 
in  that  way.  There  is  no  retribution  that  any 
mortal  could  apportion  justly." 

She  was  so  still  during  a  pause,  that  she 
seemed  to  be  holding  her  breath,  before  she 
said,  — 

"  But  if  I  had  not  had  that  murderous  will  — 
that  moment  —  if  I  had  thrown  the  rope  on 
the  instant  —  perhaps  it  would  have  hindered 
death? " 

"  No  —  I  think  not,"  said  Deronda,  slowly. 
"If  it  were  true  that  he  could  swim,  he  must 
have  been  seized  with  cramp.  With  your  quick- 
est, utmost  effort,  it  seems  impossible  that  you 
could  have  done  anything  to  save  him.  That 
momentary  murderous  will  cannot,  I  think,  have 
altered  the  course  of  events.  Its  effect  is  con- 
fined to  the  motives  in  your  own  breast.  Within 
ourselves  our  evil  will  is  momentous,  and  sooner 
or  later  it  works  its  way  outside  us  —  it  may  be 
in  the  vitiation  that  breeds  evil  acts,  but  also  it 
may  be  in  the  self- abhorrence  that  stings  us  into 
better  striving." 

"  I  am  saved  from  robbing  others  —  there  are 
others  —  they  will  have  everything  —  they  will 
have  what  they  ought  to  have.  I  knew  that  some 
time  before  I  left  town.  You  do  not  suspect  me 
of  wrong  desires  about  those  things?"  She 
spoke  hesitatingly. 

"  I  had  not  thought  of  them,"  said  Deronda; 
"  I  was  thinking  too  much  of  the  other  things." 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  223 


"  Perhaps  you  don't  quite  know  the  begin- 
ning of  it  all,"  said  Gwendolen,  slowly,  as  if  she 
were  overcoming  her  reluctance.  "  There  was 
some  one  else  he  ought  to  have  married.  And  I 
knew  it,  and  I  told  her  I  would  not  hinder  it. 
And  I  went  away  —  that  was  when  you  first 
saw  me.  But  then  we  became  poor  all  at  once, 
and  I  was  very  miserable,  and  I  was  tempted. 
I  thought,  '  I  shall  do  as  I  like  and  make  every- 
thing right.'  I  persuaded  myself.  And  it  was 
all  different.  It  was  all  dreadful.  Then  came 
hatred  and  wicked  thoughts.  That  was  how  it 
all  came.  I  told  you  I  was  afraid  of  myself. 
And  I  did  what  you  told  me  —  I  did  try  to 
make  my  fear  a  safeguard.  I  thought  of 
what  would  be  if  I  —  I  felt  what  would  come 

—  how  I  should  dread  the  morning  —  wishing 
it  would  be  always  night  —  and  yet  in  the  dark- 
ness always  seeing  something  —  seeing  death. 
If  you  did  not  know  how  miserable  I  was,  you 
might  —  but  now  it  has  all  been  no  use.  I 
can  care  for  nothing  but  saving  the  rest  from 
knowing  —  poor  mamma,  who  has  never  been 
happy." 

There  was  silence  again  before  she  said  with 
a  repressed  sob:  "  You  cannot  bear  to  look  at 
me  any  more.  You  think  I  am  too  wicked. 
You  do  not  believe  that  I  can  become  any  better 

—  worth  anything  —  worthy  enough  —  I  shall 
always  be  too  wicked  to  —  "  The  voice  broke 
off  helpless. 

Deronda's  heart  was  pierced.  He  turned  his 
eyes  on  her  poor  beseeching  face,  and  said,  "  I 
believe  that  you  may  become  worthier  than  you 
have  ever  yet  been,  —  worthy  to  lead  a  hf e  that 


224  DANIEL  DERONDA 


may  be  a  blessing.  No  evil  dooms  us  hopelessly 
except  the  evil  we  love,  and  desire  to  continue  in, 
and  make  no  effort  to  escape  from.  You  have 
made  efforts,  —  you  will  go  on  making  them." 

"  But  you  were  the  beginning  of  them.  You 
must  not  forsake  me,"  said  Gwendolen,  leaning 
with  her  clasped,  hands  on  the  arm  of  her  chair 
and  looking  at  him,  while  her  face  bore  piteous 
traces  of  the  life-experience  concentrated  in  the 
twenty- four  hours,  —  that  new  terrible  life 
lying  on  the  other  side  of  the  deed  which  fulfils 
a  criminal  desire.  "  I  will  bear  any  penance.  I 
will  lead  any  life  you  tell  me.  But  you  must  not 
forsake  me.  You  must  be  near.  If  you  had 
been  near  me  —  if  I  could  have  said  everything 
to  you,  I  should  have  been  different.  You  will 
not  forsake  me?  " 

"  It  could  never  be  my  impulse  to  forsake 
you,"  said  Deronda,  promptly,  with  that  voice 
which,  like  his  eyes,  had  the  unintentional  effect 
of  making  his  ready  sympathy  seem  more  per- 
sonal and  special  than  it  really  was.  And  in 
that  moment  he  was  not  himself  quite  free  from 
a  foreboding  of  some  such  self-committing 
effect.  His  strong  feeling  for  this  stricken 
creature  could  not  hinder  rushing  images  of 
future  difficulty.  He  continued  to  meet  her 
appealing  eyes  as  he  spoke,  but  it  was  with  the 
painful  consciousness  that  to  her  ear  his  words 
might  carry  a  promise  which  one  day  would 
seem  unfulfilled:  he  was  making  an  indefinite 
promise  to  an  indefinite  hope.  Anxieties,  both 
immediate  and  distant,  crowded  on  his  thought, 
and  it  was  under  their  influence  that,  after  a 
moment's  silence,  he  said,  — 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  225 


"  I  expect  Sir  Hugo  Mallinger  to  arrive  by 
to-morrow  night  at  least;  and  I  am  not  with- 
out hope  that  Mrs.  Davilow  may  shortly  follow 
him.  Her  presence  will  be  the  greatest  comfort 
to  you,  —  it  will  give  you  a  motive,  to  save  her 
from  unnecessary  pain?  " 

"  Yes,  yes  —  I  will  try.  And  you  will  not  go 
away?  " 

"  Not  till  after  Sir  Hugo  has  come.' 

"  But  we  shall  all  go  to  England?  " 

"  As  soon  as  possible,"  said  Deronda,  not 
wishing  to  enter  into  particulars. 

Gwendolen  looked  towards  the  window  again 
with  an  expression  which  seemed  like  a  gradual 
awakening  to  new  thoughts.  The  twilight  was 
perceptibly  deepening,  but  Deronda  could  see  a 
movement  in  her  eyes  and  hands  such  as  accom- 
panies a  return  of  perception  in  one  who  has  been 
stunned. 

"  You  will  always  be  with  Sir  Hugo  now?  " 
she  said  presently,  looking  at  him.  "  You  will 
always  live  at  the  Abbey,  —  or  else  at  Diplow?  " 

"  I  am  quite  uncertain  where  I  shall  live,"  said 
Deronda,  colouring. 

She  was  warned  by  his  changed  colour  that 
she  had  spoken  too  rashly,  and  fell  silent. 
After  a  little  while  she  began,  again  looking 
away,  — 

"  It  is  impossible  to  think  how  my  life  will  go 
on.  I  think  now  it  would  be  better  for  me  to  be 
poor  and  obliged  to  work." 

"  New  promptings  will  come  as  the  days  pass. 
When  you  are  among  your  friends  again,  you 
will  discern  new  duties,"  said  Deronda.  "  Make 
it  a  task  now  to  get  as  well  and  calm  —  as 

VOL.  XIV  — 15 


226  DANIEL  DERONDA 


much  like  yourself  as  you  can,  before  —  "  He 
hesitated. 

"  Before  my  mother  comes,"  said  Gwendolen. 
"Ah!  I  must  be  changed.  I  have  not  looked  at 
myself.  Should  you  have  known  me,"  she 
added,  turning  towards  him,  "  if  you  had  met 
me  now?  —  should  you  have  known  me  for  the 
one  you  saw  at  Leubronn?  " 

"  Yes,  I  should  have  known  you,"  said  De- 
ronda,  mournfully.  "  The  outside  change  is  not 
great.  I  should  have  seen  at  once  that  it  was 
you,  and  that  you  had  gone  through  some  great 
sorrow." 

"  Don't  \\dsh  now  that  you  had  never  seen  me, 
—  don't  wish  that,"  said  Gwendolen,  implor- 
ingly, while  the  tears  gathered. 

"  I  should  despise  myself  for  wishing  it,"  said 
Deronda.  "  How  could  I  know  what  I  was 
wishing  ?  We  must  find  our  duties  in  what  comes 
to  us,  riot  in  what  we  imagine  might  have  been. 
If  I  took  to  foolish  wishing  of  that  sort,  I  should 
wish  —  not  that  I  had  never  seen  you,  but  that  I 
had  been  able  to  save  you  from  this." 

"  You  have  saved  me  from  worse,"  said  Gwen- 
dolen, in  a  sobbing  voice.  "  I  should  have  been 
worse  if  it  had  not  been  for  you.  If  you  had  not 
been  good,  I  should  have  been  more  wicked  than 
I  am." 

"  It  will  be  better  for  me  to  go  now,"  said  De- 
ronda, worn  in  spirit  by  the  perpetual  strain  of 
this  scene.  "  Remember  what  we  said  of  your 
task,  —  to  get  well  and  calm  before  other  friends 
come." 

He  rose  as  he  spoke,  and  she  gave  him  her 
hand  submissively.  But  when  he  had  left  her  she 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON  227 


sank  on  her  knees,  in  hysterical  crying.  The 
distance  between  them  was  too  great.  She  was 
a  banished  soul,  —  beholding  a  possible  life 
which  she  had  sinned  herself  away  from. 

She  was  found  in  this  way,  crushed  on  the 
floor.  Such  grief  seemed  natural  in  a  poor 
lady  whose  husband  had  been  drowned  in  her 
presence. 


FRUIT  AND  SEED 


CHAPTER  I 

Much  adoe  there  was,  God  wot; 
He  wold  love  and  she  wold  not. 

Nicholas  Breton. 

EXTENSION,  we  know,  is  a  very  im- 
perfect measure  of  thiags ;  and  the  length 
of  the  sun's  journeying  can  no  more  tell  us 
how  far  life  has  advanced  than  the  acreage  of  a 
field  can  tell  us  what  growths  may  be  active 
within  it.  A  man  may  go  south,  and,  stumbling 
over  a  bone,  may  meditate  upon  it  till  he  has 
found  a  new  starting-point  for  anatomy;  or  east- 
ward, and  discover  a  new  key  to  language  telling 
a  new  story  of  races;  or  he  may  head  an  expe- 
dition that  opens  new  continental  pathways,  get 
himself  maimed  in  body,  and  go  through  a  whole 
heroic  poem  of  resolve  and  endurance;  and  at 
the  end  of  a  few  months  he  may  come  back  to 
find  his  neighbours  grumbling  at  the  same  parish 
grievance  as  before,  or  to  see  the  same  elderly 
gentleman  treading  the  pavement  in  discourse 
with  himself,  shaking  his  head  after  the  same  per- 
cussive butcher's  boy,  and  pausing  at  the  same 
shop-window  to  look  at  the  same  prints.  If  the 
swiftest  thinking  has  about  the  pace  of  a  grey- 
hound, the  slowest  must  be  supposed  to  move, 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  229 


like  the  limpet,  by  an  apparent  sticking,  which 
after  a  good  while  is  discerned  to  be  a  slight  pro- 
gression. Such  differences  are  manifest  in  the 
variable  intensity  which  we  call  human  experi- 
ence, from  the  revolutionary  rush  of  change 
which  makes  a  new  inner  and  outer  life,  to  that 
quiet  recurrence  of  the  familiar,  which  has  no 
other  epochs  than  those  of  hunger  and  the 
heavens. 

Something  of  this  contrast  was  seen  in  the 
year's  experience  which  had  turned  the  brilliant, 
self-confident  Gwendolen  Harleth  of  the  Arch- 
ery Meeting  into  the  crushed  penitent  impelled 
to  confess  her  unworthiness  where  it  would  have 
been  her  happiness  to  be  held  worthy;  while  it 
had  left  her  family  in  Pennicote  without  deeper 
change  than  that  of  some  outward  habits,  and 
some  adjustment  of  prospects  and  intentions  to 
reduced  income,  fewer  visits,  and  fainter  compli- 
ments. The  Rectory  was  as  pleasant  a  home  as 
before :  the  red  and  pink  peonies  on  the  lawn,  the 
rows  of  hollyhocks  by  the  hedges,  had  bloomed 
as  well  this  year  as  last:  the  Rector  main- 
tained his  cheerful  confidence  in  the  good-will  of 
patrons  and  his  resolution  to  deserve  it  by  dili- 
gence in  the  fulfilment  of  his  duties,  whether 
patrons  were  likely  to  hear  of  it  or  not;  doing 
nothing  solely  with  an  eye  to  promotion  except, 
perhaps,  the  writing  of  two  ecclesiastical  articles, 
which,  having  no  signature,  were  attributed  to 
some  one  else,  except  by  the  patrons  who  had 
a  special  copy  sent  them,  and  these  certainly 
knew  the  author  but  did  not  read  the  articles. 
The  Rector,  however,  chewed  no  poisonous  cud 
of  suspicion  on  this  point:  he  made  marginal 


230  DANIEL  DERONDA 


notes  on  his  own  copies  to  render  them  a  more 
interesting  loan,  and  was  gratified  that  the  Arch- 
deacon and  other  authorities  had  nothing  to  say 
against  the  general  tenor  of  his  argument. 
Peaceful  authorship !  —  living  in  the  air  of  the 
fields  and  downs,  and  not  in  the  thrice-breathed 
breath  of  criticism,  —  bringing  no  Dantesque 
leanness;  rather,  assisting  nutrition  by  compla- 
cency, and  perhaps  giving  a  more  suffusive  sense 
of  achievement  than  the  production  of  a  whole 
"  Divina  Commedia."  Then  there  was  the 
father's  recovered  dehght  in  his  favourite  son, 
which  was  a  happiness  outweighing  the  loss  of 
eighteen  hundred  a-year.  Of  whatever  nature 
might  be  the  hidden  change  wrought  in  Rex  by 
the  disappointment  of  his  first  love,  it  was  ap- 
parently quite  secondary  to  that  evidence  of 
more  serious  ambition  which  dated  from  the  fam- 
ily misfortune;  indeed,  Mr.  Gascoigne  was  in- 
clined to  regard  the  little  affair  which  had  caused 
him  so  much  anxiety  the  year  before  as  an  evapo- 
ration of  superfluous  moisture,  a  kind  of  finish 
to  the  baking  process  which  the  human  dough 
demands.  Rex  had  lately  come  down  for  a  sum- 
mer visit  to  the  Rectory,  bringing  Anna  home, 
and  while  he  showed  nearly  the  old  liveliness  with 
his  brothers  and  sisters,  he  continued  in  his  holi- 
day the  habits  of  the  eager  student,  rising  early 
in  the  morning  and  shutting  himself  up  early  in 
the  evenings  to  carry  on  a  fixed  course  of  study. 

"  You  don't  repent  the  choice  of  the  law  as  a 
profession.  Rex?  "  said  his  father. 

"  There  is  no  profession  I  would  choose  before 
it,"  said  Rex.  "  I  should  like  to  end  my  life  as 
a  first-rate  judge,  and  help  to  draw  up  a  code.  I 


FRUIT  AND   SEED  231 


reverse  the  famous  dictum,  —  I  should  say, 
'  Give  me  something  to  do  with  making  the  laws, 
and  let  who  will  make  the  songs.'  " 

"  You  will  have  to  stow  in  an  immense  amount 
of  rubbish,  I  suppose,  —  that 's  the  worst  of  it," 
said  the  Rector. 

"  I  don't  see  that  law-rubbish  is  worse  than  any 
other  sort.  It  is  not  so  bad  as  the  rubbishy  litera- 
ture that  people  choke  their  minds  with.  It 
does  n't  make  one  so  dull.  Our  wittiest  men  have 
often  been  lawyers.  Any  orderly  way  of  look- 
ing at  things  as  cases  and  evidence  seems  to  me 
better  than  a  perpetual  wash  of  odds  and  ends 
bearing  on  nothing  in  particular.  And  then, 
from  a  higher  point  of  view,  the  foundations  and 
the  growth  of  law  make  the  most  interesting  as- 
pects of  philosophy  and  history.  Of  course  there 
will  be  a  good  deal  that  is  troublesome,  drudging, 
perhaps  exasperating.  But  the  great  prizes  in 
life  can't  be  won  easily,  —  I  see  that." 

"  Well,  my  boy,  the  best  augury  of  a  man's 
success  in  his  profession  is  that  he  thinks  it  the 
finest  in  the  world.  But  I  fancy  it  is  so  with  most 
work  when  a  man  goes  into  it  with  a  will.  Bre- 
witt,  the  blacksmith,  said  to  me  the  other  day 
that  his  'prentice  had  no  mind  to  his  trade; 
'  and  yet,  sir,'  said  Brewitt,  '  what  would  a 
young  fellow  have  if  he  doesn't  like  the 
blacksmithing? '  " 

The  Rector  cherished  a  fatherly  delight,  which 
he  allowed  to  escape  him  only  in  moderation. 
Warham,  who  had  gone  to  India,  he  had  easily 
borne  parting  with,  but  Rex  was  that  romance  of 
later  life  which  a  man  sometimes  finds  in  a  son 
whom  he  recognizes  as  superior  to  himself. 


232 


DANIEL  DERONDA 


picturing  a  future  eminence  for  him  according 
to  a  variety  of  famous  examples.  It  was  only 
to  his  wife  that  he  said  with  decision,  "  Rex 
will  be  a  distinguished  man,  Nancy,  I  am  sure 
of  it,  —  as  sure  as  Paley's  father  was  about  his 
son." 

"  Was  Paley  an  old  bachelor? "  said  Mrs. 
Gascoigne. 

"  That  is  hardly  to  the  point,  my  dear,"  said 
the  Rector,  who  did  not  remember  that  irrelevant 
detail.  And  JNIrs.  Gascoigne  felt  that  she  had 
spoken  rather  weakly. 

This  quiet  trotting  of  time  at  the  Rectory  was 
shared  by  the  group  who  had  exchanged  the 
faded  dignity  of  Offendene  for  the  low  white 
house  not  a  mile  off, .well  enclosed  with  ever- 
greens, and  known  to  the  villagers  as  "  Jod- 
son's."  JNIrs.  Davilow's  delicate  face  showed 
only  a  slight  deepening  of  its  mild  melancholy, 
her  hair  only  a  few  more  silver  lines,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  last  year's  trials;  the  four  girls 
had  bloomed  out  a  little  from  being  less  in  the 
shade;  and  the  good  Jocosa  preserved  her  ser- 
viceable neutrality  towards  the  pleasures  and 
glories  of  the  world  as  things  made  for  those  who 
were  not  "  in  a  situation." 

The  low  narrow  drawing-room,  enlarged  by 
two  quaint  projecting  windows,  with  lattices  wide 
open  on  a  July  afternoon  to  the  scent  of  monthly 
roses,  the  faint  murmurs  of  the  garden,  and  the 
occasional  rare  sound  of  hoofs  and  wheels  seem- 
ing to  clarify  the  succeeding  silence,  made  rather 
a  crowded  lively  scene.  Rex  and  Anna  being 
added  to  the  usual  group  of  six.  Anna,  always 
a  favourite  with  her  younger  cousins,  had  much 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  233 


to  tell  of  her  new  experience,  and  the  acquaint- 
ances she  had  made  in  London ;  and  when  on  her 
first  visit  she  came  alone,  many  questions  were 
asked  her  about  Gwendolen's  house  in  Gros- 
venor  Square,  what  Gwendolen  herself  had  said, 
and  what  any  one  else  had  said  about  Gwendolen. 
Had  Anna  been  to  see  Gwendolen  after  she  had 
known  about  the  yacht?  No:  an  answer  which 
left  speculation  free  concerning  everything  con- 
nected with  that  interesting  unknown  vessel  be- 
yond the  fact  that  Gwendolen  had  written  just 
before  she  set  out  to  say  that  Mr.  Grandcourt 
and  she  were  going  yachting  in  the  Mediter- 
ranean, and  again  from  Marseilles  to  say  that  she 
was  sure  to  like  the  yachting,  the  cabins  were 
very  elegant,  and  she  would  probably  not  send 
another  letter  till  she  had  written  quite  a  long 
diary  filled  with  dittos.  Also,  this  movement  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grandcourt  had  been  mentioned 
in  "  the  newspaper;  "  so  that  altogether  this  new 
phase  of  Gwendolen's  exalted  life  made  a  strik- 
ing part  of  the  sisters'  romance,  the  book- 
devouring  Isabel  throwing  in  a  corsair  or  two 
to  make  an  adventure  that  might  end  well. 

But  when  Rex  was  present,  the  girls,  accord- 
ing to  instructions,  never  started  this  fascinating 
topic ;  and  to-day  there  had  only  been  animated 
descriptions  of  the  Meyricks  and  their  extraor- 
dinary Jewish  friends,  which  caused  some  as- 
tonished questioning  from  minds  to  which  the 
idea  of  live  Jews,  out  of  a  book,  suggested  a  dif- 
ference deep  enough  to  be  almost  zoological,  as 
of  a  strange  race  in  Pliny's  Natural  History  that 
might  sleep  under  the  shade  of  its  own  ears. 
Bertha  could  not  imagine  what  Jews  believed 


234  DANIEL  DERONDA 


now,  and  had  a  dim  idea  that  they  rejected  the 
Old  Testament  since  it  proved  the  New;  Miss 
Merry  thought  that  Mirah  and  her  brother  could 
"never  have  been  properly  argued  with;  "  and 
the  amiable  Alice  did  not  mind  what  the  Jews 
believed,  she  was  sure  she  "  could  n't  bear  them." 
Mrs.  Davilow  corrected  her  by  saying  that  the 
great  Jewish  families  who  were  in  society  were 
quite  what  they  ought  to  be  both  in  London  and 
Paris,  but  admitted  that  the  commoner  uncon- 
verted Jews  were  objectionable;  and  Isabel 
asked  whether  Mirah  talked  just  as  they  did,  or 
whether  you  might  be  with  her  and  not  find  out 
that  she  was  a  Jewess. 

Rex,  who  had  no  partisanship  with  the  Israel- 
ites, having  made  a  troublesome  acquaintance 
with  the  minutiae  of  their  ancient  history  in  the 
form  of  "  cram,"  was  amusing  himself  by  play- 
fully exaggerating  the  notion  of  each  speaker, 
while  Anna  begged  them  all  to  understand  that 
he  was  only  joking,  when  the  laughter  was  in- 
terrupted by  the  bringing  in  of  a  letter  for  Mrs. 
Davilow.  A  messenger  had  run  with  it  in  great 
haste  from  the  Rectory.  It  enclosed  a  telegram, 
and  as  Mrs.  Davilow  read  and  re-read  it  in 
silence  and  agitation,  all  eyes  were  turned  on  her 
with  anxiety,  but  no  one  dared  to  speak.  Look- 
ing up  at  last  and  seeing  the  young  faces 
"  painted  with  fear,"  she  remembered  that  they 
might  be  imagining  something  worse  than  the 
truth,  something  like  her  own  first  dread  which 
made  her  unable  to  understand  what  was  writ- 
ten, and  she  said,  with  a  sob  which  was  half 
relief,  — 

"  My  dears,  Mr.  Grandcourt  —  "  she  paused 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  235 


an  instant,  and  then  began  again,  "  Mr.  Grand- 
court  is  drowned." 

Rex  started  up  as  if  a  missile  had  been  sud- 
denly thrown  into  the  room.  He  could  not  help 
himself,  and  Anna's  first  look  was  at  him.  But 
then,  gathering  some  self-command  while  Mrs. 
Davilow  was  reading  what  the  Rector  had  writ- 
ten on  the  enclosing  paper,  he  said,  — 

"  Can  I  do  anything,  aunt?  Can  I  carry  any 
word  to  my  father  from  you?  " 

"  Yes,  dear.  Tell  him  I  will  be  ready,  —  he  is 
very  good.  He  says  he  will  go  with  me  to 
Genoa,  he  will  be  here  at  half -past  six.  Jocosa 
and  Alice,  help  me  to  get  ready.  She  is  safe,  — 
Gwendolen  is  safe,  —  but  she  must  be  ill.  I  am 
sure  she  must  be  very  ill.  Rex  dear,  —  Rex  and 
Anna,  —  go  and  tell  your  father  I  will  be  quite 
ready.  I  would  not  for  the  world  lose  another 
night.  And  bless  him  for  being  ready  so  soon. 
I  can  travel  night  and  day  till  we  get  there." 

Rex  and  Anna  hurried  away  through  the  sun- 
shine which  was  suddenly  solemn  to  them,  with- 
out uttering  a  word  to  each  other;  she  chiefly 
possessed  by  solicitude  about  any  reopening  of 
his  wound,  he  struggling  with  a  tumultuary 
crowd  of  thoughts  that  were  an  offence  against 
his  better  will.  The  oppression  being  undimin- 
ished when  they  were  at  the  Rectory  gate,  he 
said,  — 

"  Nannie,  I  will  leave  you  to  say  everything  to 
my  father.  If  he  wants  me  immediately,  let  me 
know.  I  shall  stay  in  the  shrubbery  for  ten 
minutes,  —  only  ten  minutes." 

Who  has  been  quite  free  from  egoistic  escapes 
of  the  imagination  picturing  desirable  conse- 


236  DANIEL  DERONDA 


quences  on  his  own  future  in  the  presence  of  an- 
other's misfortune,  sorrow,  or  death?  The  ex- 
pected promotion  or  legacy  is  the  common  type 
of  a  temptation  which  makes  speech  and  even 
prayer  a  severe  avoidance  of  the  most  insistent 
thoughts,  and  sometimes  raises  an  inward  shame, 
a  self -distaste,  that  is  worse  than  any  other  form 
of  unpleasant  companionship.  In  Ilex's  nature 
the  shame  was  immediate,  and  overspread  like 
an  ugly  light  all  the  hurrying  images  of  what 
might  come,  —  which  thrust  themselves  in  with 
the  idea  that  Gwendolen  was  again  free,  —  over- 
spread them,  perhaps,  the  more  persistently  be- 
cause every  phantasm  of  a  hope  was  quickly  nul- 
lified by  a  more  substantial  obstacle.  Before  the 
vision  of  "  Gwendolen  free  "  rose  the  impassable 
vision  of  "  Gwendolen  rich,  exalted,  courted;  " 
and  if  in  the  former  time,  when  both  their  lives 
were  fresh,  she  had  turned  from  his  love  with  re- 
pugnance, what  ground  was  there  for  supposing 
that  her  heart  would  be  more  open  to  him  in  the 
future  ? 

These  thoughts,  which  he  wanted  to  master  and 
suspend,  were  like  a  tumultuary  ringing  of  op- 
posing chimes  that  he  could  not  escape  from  by 
running.  During  the  last  year  he  had  brought 
himself  into  a  state  of  calm  resolve,  and  now  it 
seemed  that  three  words  had  been  enough  to  un- 
do all  that  difficult  work,  and  cast  him  back  into 
the  wretched  fluctuations  of  a  longing  which  he 
recognized  as  simply  perturbing  and  hopeless. 
And  at  this  moment  the  activity  of  such  longing 
had  an  untimeliness  that  made  it  repulsive  to  his 
better  self.  Excuse  poor  Rex :  it  was  not  much 
more  than  eighteen  months  since  he  had  been 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  237 


laid  low  by  an  archer  who  sometimes  touches  his 
arrow  with  a  subtle,  lingering  poison.  The  dis- 
appointment of  a  youthful  passion  has  effects 
as  incalculable  as  those  of  small-pox,  which  may 
make  one  person  plain  and  a  genius,  another  less 
plain  and  more  foolish,  another  plain  without 
detriment  to  his  folly,  and  leave  perhaps  the  ma- 
jority without  obvious  change.  Everything  de- 
pends —  not  on  the  mere  fact  of  disappointment, 
but  —  on  the  nature  affected  and  the  force  that 
stirs  it.  In  Rex's  well-endowed  nature,  brief  as 
the  hope  had  been,  the  passionate  stirring  had 
gone  deep,  and  the  effect  of  disappointment  was 
revolutionary,  though  fraught  with  a  beneficent 
new  order  which  retained  most  of  the  old  virtues : 
in  certain  respects  he  believed  that  it  had  finally 
determined  the  bias  and  colour  of  his  life.  Now, 
however,  it  seemed  that  his  inward  peace  was 
hardly  more  stable  than  that  of  republican  Flor- 
ence, and  his  heart  no  better  than  the  alarm-bell 
that  made  work  slack  and  tumult  busy. 

Rex's  love  had  been  of  that  sudden,  penetrat- 
ing, clinging  sort  which  the  ancients  knew  and 
sung,  and  in  singing  made  a  fashion  of  talk  for 
many  moderns  whose  experience  has  been  by  no 
means  of  a  fiery,  daemonic  character.  To  have 
the  consciousness  suddenly  steeped  with  an- 
other's personality,  to  have  the  strongest  inclina- 
tions possessed  by  an  image  which  retains  its 
dominance  in  spite  of  change  and  apart  from 
worthiness,  —  nay,  to  feel  a  passion  which  clings 
the  faster  for  the  tragic  pangs  inflicted  by  a  cruel, 
recognized  unworthiness,  —  is  a  phase  of  love 
which  in  the  feeble  and  common-minded  has  a 
repulsive  likeness  to  a  blind  animalism  insensible 


238  DANIEL  DERONDA 

to  the  higher  sway  of  moral  affinity  or  heaven-lit 
admiration.  But  when  this  attaching  force  is 
present  in  a  nature  not  of  brutish  unmodifiable- 
ness,  but  of  a  human  dignity  that  can  risk  itself 
safely,  it  may  even  result  in  a  devotedness  not 
unfit  to  be  called  divine  in  a  higher  sense  than  the 
ancient.  Phlegmatic  rationality  stares  and 
shakes  its  head  at  these  unaccountable  preposses- 
sions, but  they  exist  as  undeniably  as  the  winds 
and  waves,  determining  here  a  wreck  and  there  a 
triumphant  voyage. 

This  sort  of  passion  had  nested  in  the  sweet- 
natured,  strong  Rex,  and  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  its  companionship,  as  if  it  had  been  an 
object  supremely  dear,  stricken  dumb  and  help- 
less, and  turning  all  the  future  of  tenderness  into 
a  shadow  of  the  past.  But  he  had  also  made  up 
his  mind  that  his  life  was  not  to  be  pauperized 
because  he  had  had  to  renounce  one  sort  of  joy; 
rather,  he  had  begun  life  again  with  a  new  count- 
ing up  of  the  treasures  that  remained  to  him,  and 
he  had  even  felt  a  release  of  power  such  as  may 
come  from  ceasing  to  be  afraid  of  your  own  neck. 

And  now,  here  he  was  pacing  the  shrubbery, 
angry  with  himself  that  the  sense  of  irrevocable- 
ness  in  his  lot,  which  ought  in  reason  to  have  been 
as  strong  as  ever,  had  been  shaken  by  a  change 
of  circumstances  that  could  make  no  change  in 
relation  to  him.  He  told  himself  the  truth  quite 
roughly,  — 

"  She  would  never  love  me;  and  that  is  not  the 
question,  —  I  could  never  approach  her  as  a 
lover  in  her  present  position.  I  am  exactly  of  no 
consequence  at  all,  and  am  not  likely  to  be  of 
much  consequence  till  my  head  is  turning  gray. 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  239 


But  what  has  that  to  do  with  it?  She  would  not 
have  me  on  any  terms,  and  I  would  not  ask  her. 
It  is  a  meanness  to  be  thinking  about  it  now,  — 
no  better  than  lurking  about  the  battle-field  to 
strip  the  dead ;  but  there  never  was  more  gratui- 
tous sinning.  I  have  nothing  to  gain  there,  — 
absolutely  nothing.  .  .  .  Then  why  can't  I  face 
the  facts,  and  behave  as  they  demand,  instead  of 
leaving  my  father  to  suppose  that  there  are  mat- 
ters he  can't  speak  to  me  about,  though  I  might 
be  useful  in  them?  " 

That  last  thought  made  one  wave  with  the 
impulse  that  sent  Rex  walking  firmly  into  the 
house  and  through  the  open  door  of  the  study, 
where  he  saw  his  father  packing  a  travelling 
desk. 

"  Can  I  be  of  any  use,  sir? "  said  Rex,  with 
rallied  courage,  as  his  father  looked  up  at  him. 

"  Yes,  my  boy;  when  I  am  gone,  just  see  to 
my  letters,  and  answer  where  necessary,  and  send 
me  word  of  everything.  Dymock  will  manage 
the  parish  very  well,  and  you  will  stay  with  your 
mother,  or,  at  least,  go  up  and  down  again,  till 
I  come  back,  whenever  that  may  be." 

"  You  will  hardly  be  very  long,  sir,  I  suppose,'* 
said  Rex,  beginning  to  strap  a  railway  rug. 
"  You  will  perhaps  bring  my  cousin  back  to 
England? "  He  forced  himself  to  speak  of 
Gwendolen  for  the  first  time,  and  the  Rector 
noticed  the  epoch  with  satisfaction. 

"  That  depends,"  he  answered,  taking  the  sub- 
ject as  a  matter  of  course  between  them.  "  Per- 
haps her  mother  may  stay  there  with  her,  and  I 
may  come  back  very  soon.  This  telegram  leaves 
us  in  an  ignorance  which  is  rather  anxious.  But 


240  DANIEL  DERONDA 


no  doubt  the  arrangements  of  the  will  lately  made 
are  satisfactory,  and  there  may  possibly  be  an 
heir  yet  to  be  born.  In  any  case,  I  feel  confident 
that  Gwendolen  will  be  liberally  —  I  should  ex- 
pect, splendidly  —  provided  for." 

"  It  must  have  been  a  great  shock  for  her," 
said  Rex,  getting  more  resolute  after  the  first 
twinge  had  been  borne.  "  I  suppose  he  was  a 
devoted  husband." 

"  No  doubt  of  it,"  said  the  Rector,  in  his  most 
decided  manner.  "  Few  men  of  his  position 
would  have  come  forward  as  he  did  under  the 
circumstances." 

Rex  had  never  seen  Grandcourt,  had  never 
been  spoken  to  about  him  by  any  one  of  the  fam- 
ily, and  knew  nothing  of  Gwendolen's  flight 
from  her  suitor  to  Leubronn.  He  only  know 
that  Grandcourt,  being  very  much  in  love  with 
her,  had  made  her  an  offer  in  the  first  weeks  of 
her  sudden  poverty,  and  had  behaved  very  hand- 
somely in  providing  for  her  mother  and  sisters. 
That  was  all  very  natural,  and  what  Rex  him- 
self would  have  liked  to  do.  Grandcourt  had 
been  a  lucky  fellow,  and  had  had  some  happiness 
before  he  got  drowned.  Yet  Rex  wondered 
much  whether  Gwendolen  had  been  in  love  with 
the  successful  suitor,  or  had  only  forborne  to  tell 
him  that  she  hated  being  made  love  to. 


CHAPTER  II 


I  count  myself  in  nothing  else  so  happy 
As  in  a  soul  remembering  my  good  friends. 

Shakespeabe. 

SIR  HUGO  MALLINGER  was  not  so 
prompt  in  starting  for  Genoa  as  Mr.  Gas- 
coigne  had  been,  and  Deronda  on  all  ac- 
counts would  not  take  his  departure  till  he  had 
seen  the  baronet.  There  was  not  only  Grand- 
court's  death,  but  also  the  late  crisis  in  his  own 
life  to  make  reasons  why  his  oldest  friend  would 
desire  to  have  the  unrestrained  communication  of 
speech  with  him,  for  in  writing  he  had  not  felt 
able  to  give  any  details  concerning  the  mother 
who  had  come  and  gone  like  an  apparition.  It 
was  not  till  the  fifth  evening  that  Deronda,  ac- 
cording to  telegram,  waited  for  Sir  Hugo  at  the 
station,  where  he  was  to  arrive  between  eight  and 
nine;  and  while  he  was  looking  forward  to  the 
sight  of  the  kind,  familiar  face,  which  was  part 
of  his  earliest  memories,  something  like  a  smile, 
in  spite  of  his  late  tragic  experience,  might  have 
been  detected  in  his  eyes  and  the  curve  of  his  lips 
at  the  idea  of  Sir  Hugo's  pleasure  in  being  now- 
master  of  his  estates,  able  to  leave  them  to  his 
daughters,  or  at  least  —  according  to  a  view  of 
inheritance  which  had  just  been  strongly  im- 
pressed on  Deronda's  imagination  —  to  take 
makeshift  feminine  offspring  as  intermediate  to 
a  satisfactory  heir  in  a  grandson.  We  should  be 
churlish  creatures  if  we  could  have  no  joy  in  our 
fellow-mortals'  joy,  unless  it  were  in  agreement 

VOL.  XIV — 16 


242  DANIEL  DERONDA 


with  our  theory  of  righteous  distribution  and  our 
highest  ideal  of  human  good :  what  sour  corners 
our  mouths  would  get,  —  our  eyes,  what  frozen 
glances!  and  all  the  while  our  own  possessions 
and  desires  would  not  exactly  adjust  them- 
selves to  our  ideal.  We  must  have  some  com- 
radeship with  imperfection;  and  it  is,  happily, 
possible  to  feel  gratitude  even  where  we  discern 
a  mistake  that  may  have  been  injurious,  the  vehi- 
cle of  the  mistake  being  an  affectionate  intention 
prosecuted  through  a  lifetime  of  kindly  offices. 
Deronda's  feeling  and  judgment  were  strongly 
against  the  action  of  Sir  Hugo  in  making  him- 
self the  agent  of  a  falsity,  —  yes,  a  falsity:  he 
could  give  no  milder  name  to  the  concealment 
under  which  he  had  been  reared.  But  the  bar- 
onet had  probably  had  no  clear  knowledge  con- 
cerning the  mother's  breach  of  trust,  and  with  his 
light  easy  way  of  taking  life,  had  held  it  a  reason- 
able preference  in  her  that  her  son  should  be 
made  an  English  gentleman,  seeing  that  she  had 
the  eccentricity  of  not  caring  to  part  from  her 
child,  and  be  to  him  as  if  she  were  not.  Daniel's 
affectionate  gratitude  towards  Sir  Hugo  made 
him  wish  to  find  grounds  of  excuse  rather  than 
blame ;  for  it  is  as  possible  to  be  rigid  in  principle 
and  tender  in  blame,  as  it  is  to  suffer  from  the 
sight  of  things  hung  awiy,  and  yet  to  be  patient 
with  the  hanger  who  sees  amiss.  If  Sir  Hugo  in 
his  bachelorhood  had  been  beguiled  into  regard- 
ing children  chiefly  as  a  product  intended  to 
make  life  more  agreeable  to  the  full-grown, 
whose  convenience  alone  was  to  be  consulted 
in  the  disposal  of  them,  —  why,  he  had  shared 
an  assumption  which,  if  not  formally  avowed, 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  243 


was  massively  acted  on  at  that  date  of  the  world's 
history ;  and  Deronda,  with  all  his  keen  memory 
of  the  painful  inward  struggle  he  had  gone 
through  in  his  boyhood,  was  able  also  to  remem- 
ber the  many  signs  that  his  experience  had  been 
entirely  shut  out  from  Sir  Hugo's  conception. 
Ignorant  kindness  may  have  the  effect  of 
cruelty;  but  to  be  angry  with  it  as  if  it  were 
direct  cruelty  would  be  an  ignorant  i/^Tikindness, 
the  most  remote  from  Deronda' s  large  imagina- 
tive lenience  towards  others.  And  perhaps  now, 
after  the  searching  scenes  of  the  last  ten  days,  in 
which  the  curtain  had  been  lifted  for  him  from 
the  secrets  of  lives  unlike  his  own,  he  was  more 
than  ever  disposed  to  check  that  rashness  of  in- 
dignation or  resentment  which  has  an  unpleasant 
likeness  to  the  love  of  punishing.  When  he  saw 
Sir  Hugo's  familiar  figure  descending  from  the 
railway  carriage,  the  life-long  affection,  which 
had  been  well  accustomed  to  make  excuses, 
flowed  in  and  submerged  all  newer  knowledge 
that  might  have  seemed  fresh  ground  for  blame. 

"  Well,  Dan,"  said  Sir  Hugo,  with  a  serious 
fervour,  grasping  Deronda's  hand.  He  uttered 
no  other  words  of  greeting ;  there  was  too  strong 
a  rush  of  mutual  consciousness.  The  next  thing 
was  to  give  orders  to  the  courier,  and  then  to  pro- 
pose walking  slowly  in  the  mild  evening,  there 
being  no  hurry  to  get  to  the  hotel. 

"  I  have  taken  my  journey  easily,  and  am  in 
excellent  condition,"  he  said,  as  he  and  Deronda 
came  out  under  the  starlight,  which  was  still  faint 
with  the  lingering  sheen  of  day.  "  I  did  n't 
hurry  in  setting  off,  because  I  wanted  to  inquire 
into  things  a  little,  and  so  I  got  sight  of  your 


244  DANIEL  DERONDA 


letter  to  Lady  Mallinger  before  I  started.  But 
now,  how  is  the  widow?  " 

"  Getting  calmer,"  said  Deronda.  "  She 
seems  to  be  escaping  the  bodily  illness  that  one 
might  have  feared  for  her,  after  her  plunge  and 
terrible  excitement.  Her  uncle  and  mother  came 
two  days  ago,  and  she  is  being  well  taken  care  of." 

"  Any  prospect  of  an  heir  being  born?  " 

"  From  what  Mr.  Gascoigne  said  to  me,  I  con- 
clude not.  He  spoke  as  if  it  were  a  question 
whether  the  widow  would  have  the  estates  for  her 
life." 

"  It  will  not  be  much  of  a  wrench  to  her  affec- 
tions, I  fancy,  this  loss  of  the  husband?  "  said  Sir 
Hugo,  looking  round  at  Deronda. 

"  The  suddenness  of  the  death  has  been  a  great 
blow  to  her,"  said  Deronda,  quietly  evading  the 
question. 

"  I  wonder  whether  Grandcourt  gave  her  any 
notion  what  were  the  provisions  of  his  will?  " 
said  Sir  Hugo. 

"Do  you  know  what  they  are,  sir? "  parried 
Deronda. 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  said  the  baronet,  quickly. 
"  Gad !  if  there  is  no  prospect  of  a  legitimate  heir, 
he  has  left  everything  to  a  boy  he  had  by  a  Mrs. 
Glasher;  you  know  nothing  about  the  affair,  I 
suppose,  but  she  was  a  sort  of  wife  to  him  for  a 
good  many  years,  and  there  are  three  older  chil- 
dren—  girls.  The  boy  is  to  take  his  father's 
name;  he  is  Henleigh  already,  and  he  is  to  be 
Henleigh  Mallinger  Grandcourt.  The  Mallin- 
ger will  be  of  no  use  to  him,  I  am  happy  to  say; 
but  the  young  dog  will  have  more  than  enough 
with  his  fourteen  years'  minority  —  no  need  to 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  245 


have  had  holes  filled  up  with  my  fifty  thousand 
for  Diplow  that  he  had  no  right  to;  and  mean- 
while my  beauty,  the  young  widow,  is  to  put  up 
with  a  poor  two  thousand  a  year  and  the  house 
at  Gadsmere,  —  a  nice  kind  of  banishment  for 
her  if  she  chose  to  shut  herself  up  there,  which  I 
don't  think  she  will.  The  boy's  mother  has  been 
living  there  of  late  years.  I 'm  perfectly  dis- 
gusted with  Grandcourt.  I  don't  know  that  I 'm 
obliged  to  think  the  better  of  him  because  he 's 
drowned,  though,  so  far  as  my  affairs  are  con- 
cerned, nothing  in  his  life  became  him  like  the 
leaving  it." 

"  In  my  opinion  he  did  wrong  when  he  married 
this  wife,  —  not  in  leaving  his  estates  to  the  son," 
said  Deronda,  rather  dryly. 

"  I  say  nothing  against  his  leaving  the  land  to 
the  lad,"  said  Sir  Hugo ;  "  but  since  he  had  mar- 
ried this  girl  he  ought  to  have  given  her  a  hand- 
some provision,  such  as  she  could  live  on  in  a 
style  fitted  to  the  rank  he  had  raised  her  to.  She 
ought  to  have  had  four  or  five  thousand  a  year 
and  the  London  house  for  her  life;  that 's  what  I 
should  have  done  for  her.  I  suppose,  as  she  was 
penniless,  her  friends  could  n't  stand  out  for  a 
settlement,  else  it 's  ill  trusting  to  the  will  a  man 
may  make  after  he 's  married.  Even  a  wise  man 
generally  lets  some  folly  ooze  out  of  him  in  his 
will,  —  my  father  did,  I  know;  and  if  a  fellow 
has  any  spite  or  tyranny  in  him,  he 's  likely  to 
bottle  off  a  good  deal  for  keeping  in  that  sort  of 
document.  It 's  quite  clear  Grandcourt  meant 
that  his  death  should  put  an  extinguisher  on  his 
wife,  if  she  bore  him  no  heir." 

"  And,  m  the  other  case,  I  suppose  everything 


246  DANIEL  DERONDA 


would  have  been  reversed,  —  illegitimacy  would 
have  had  the  extinguisher?  "  said  Deronda,  with 
some  scorn. 

"  Precisely,  —  Gadsmere  and  the  two  thou- 
sand. It 's  queer.  One  nuisance  is  that  Grand- 
court  has  made  me  an  executor;  but  seeing  he 
was  the  son  of  my  only  brother,  I  can't  refuse  to 
act.  And  I  shall  mind  it  less,  if  I  can  be  of  any 
use  to  the  widow.  Lush  thinks  she  was  not  in  ig- 
norance about  the  family  under  the  rose,  and  the 
purport  of  the  will.  He  hints  that  there  was  no 
very  good  understanding  between  the  couple. 
But  I  fancy  you  are  the  man  who  knew  most 
about  what  Mrs.  Grandcourt  felt  or  did  not  feel 
—  eh,  Dan?  "  Sir  Hugo  did  not  put  this  ques- 
tion with  his  usual  jocoseness,  but  rather  with  a 
lowered  tone  of  interested  inquiry ;  and  Dieronda 
felt  that  any  evasion  would  be  misinterpreted. 
He  answered  gravely, — 

"  She  was  certainly  not  happy.  They  were  un- 
suited  to  each  other.  But  as  to  the  disposal  of  the 
property  —  from  all  I  have  seen  of  her,  I  should 
predict  that  she  will  be  quite  contented  with  it." 

"  Then  she  is  not  much  like  the  rest  of  her  sex; 
that 's  all  I  can  say,"  said  Sir  Hugo,  with  a  slight 
shrug.  "  However,  she  ought  to  be  something 
extraordinary,  for  there  must  be  an  entangle- 
ment between  your  horoscope  and  hers  —  eh? 
When  that  tremendous  telegram  carne,  the  first 
thing  Lady  Mallinger  said  was,  '  How  very 
strange  that  it  should  be  Daniel  who  sends  it ! ' 
But  I  have  had  something  of  the  same  sort  in  my 
own  life.  I  was  once  at  a  foreign  hotel  where  a 
lady  had  been  left  by  her  husband  without 
money.   When  I  heard  of  it,  and  came  forward 


FRUIT  AND   SEED  247 


to  help  her,  who  should  she  be  but  an  early  flame 
of  mine,  who  had  been  fool  enough  to  marry  an 
Austrian  baron  with  a  long  mustache  and  short 
affection?  But  it  was  an  affair  of  my  own  that 
called  me  there,  —  nothing  to  do  with  knight- 
errantry,  any  more  than  your  coming  to  Genoa 
had  to  do  with  the  Grandcourts." 

There  was  silence  for  a  little  while.  Sir  Hugo 
had  begun  to  talk  of  the  Grandcourts  as  the 
less  difficult  subject  between  himself  and  De- 
ronda;  but  they  were  both  wishing  to  over- 
come a  reluctance  to  perfect  frankness  on  the 
events  which  touched  their  relation  to  each  other. 
Deronda  felt  that  his  letter,  after  the  first  in- 
terview with  his  mother,  had  been  rather  a 
thickening  than  a  breaking  of  the  ice,  and  that 
he  ought  to  wait  for  the  first  opening  to  come 
from  Sir  Hugo.  Just  when  they  were  about  to 
lose  sight  of  the  port,  the  baronet  turned,  and 
pausing  as  if  to  get  a  last  view,  said  in  a  tone 
of  more  serious  feeling,  — 

"  And  about  the  main  business  of  your  com- 
ing to  Genoa,  Dan?  You  have  not  been  deeply 
pained  by  anything  you  have  learned,  I  hope? 
There  is  nothing  that  you  feel  need  change  your 
position  in  any  way  ?  You  know,  whatever  hap- 
pens to  you  must  always  be  of  importance  to 
me." 

"  I  desire  to  meet  your  goodness  by  perfect 
confidence,  sir,"  said  Deronda.  "  But  I  can't 
answer  those  questions  truly  by  a  simple  yes 
or  no.  Much  that  I  have  heard  about  the  past 
has  pained  me.  And  it  has  been  a  pain  to  meet 
and  part  with  my  mother  in  her  suffering  state, 
as  I  have  been  compelled  to  do.    But  it  is  no 


248  DANIEL  DERONDA 


pain  —  it  is  rather  a  clearing  up  of  doubts  for 
which  I  am  thankful  —  to  know  my  parentage. 
As  to  the  effect  on  my  position,  there  will  be 
no  change  in  my  gratitude  to  you,  sir,  for  the 
fatherly  care  and  affection  you  have  always 
shown  me.  But  to  know  that  I  was  born  a  Jew, 
may  have  a  momentous  influence  on  my  life, 
which  I  am  hardly  able  to  tell  you  of  at  present." 

Deronda  spoke  the  last  sentence  with  a  re- 
solve that  overcame  some  diffidence.  He  felt 
that  the  differences  between  Sir  Hugo's  nature 
and  his  own  would  have,  by  and  by,  to  disclose 
themselves  more  markedly  than  had  ever  yet 
been  needful.  The  baronet  gave  him  a  quick 
glance,  and  turned  to  walk  on.  After  a  few 
moments'  silence,  in  which  he  had  reviewed  all 
the  material  in  his  memory  which  would  enable 
him  to  interpret  Deronda's  words,  he  said,  — 

"  I  have  long  expected  something  remarkable 
from  you,  Dan;  but,  for  God's  sake,  don't 
go  into  any  eccentricities!  I  can  tolerate  any 
man's  difference  of  opinion,  but  let  him  tell  it 
me  without  getting  himself  up  as  a  lunatic. 
At  this  stage  of  the  world,  if  a  man  wants  to  be 
taken  seriously  he  must  keep  clear  of  melo- 
drama. Don't  misunderstand  me.  I  am  not 
suspecting  you  of  setting  up  any  lunacy  on  your 
own  account.  I  only  think  you  might  ea^sily 
be  led  arm  in  arm  with  a  lunatic,  especially  if 
he  wanted  defending.  You  have  a  passion  for 
people  who  are  pelted,  Dan.  I 'm  sorry  for 
them  too;  but  so  far  as  company  goes,  it's  a 
bad  ground  of  selection.  However,  I  don't 
ask  you  to  anticipate  your  inclination  in  any- 
thing you  have  to  tell  me.   When  you  make  up 


FRUIT  AND   SEED  249 


your  mind  to  a  course  that  requires  money,  I 
have  some  sixteen  thousand  pounds  that  have 
been  accumulating  for  you  over  and  above  what 
you  have  been  having  the  interest  of  as  income. 
And  now  I  am  come,  I  suppose  you  want  to  get 
back  to  England  as  soon  as  you  can?  " 

"  I  must  go  first  to  Mainz  to  get  away  a  chest 
of  my  grandfather's,  and  perhaps  to  see  a  friend 
of  his,"  said  Derond,a.  "  Although  the  chest 
has  been  lying  there  these  twenty  years,  I  have 
an  unreasonable  sort  of  nervous  eagerness  to 
get  it  away  under  my  care,  as  if  it  were  more 
likely  now  than  before  that  something  might 
happen  to  it.  And  perhaps  I  am  the  more  un- 
easy, because  I  lingered  after  my  mother  left, 
instead  of  setting  out  immediately.  Yet  I  can't 
regret  that  I  was  here,  —  else  Mrs.  Grandcourt 
would  have  had  none  but  servants  to  act  for 
her." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Sir  Hugo,  with  a  flippancy 
which  was  an  escape  of  some  vexation  hidden 
under  his  moie  serious  speech:  I  hope  you  are 
not  going  to  set  a  dead  Jew  above  a  living 
Christian." 

Deronda  coloured,  and  repressed  a  retort. 
They  were  just  turning  into  the  Italia, 


CHAPTER  III 


But  I  shall  say  no  more  of  this  at  this  time;  for  this  is  to  be  felt 
and  not  to  be  talked  of;  and  they  who  never  touched  it  with  their 
fingers  may  secretly  perhaps  laugh  at  it  in  their  hearts  and  be  never 
the  wiser.  —  Jeremy  Taylor. 

"The  Roman  Emperor  in  the  legend  put  to  death  ten  learned 
IsraeUtes  to  avenge  the  sale  of  Joseph  by  his  brethren.  And  there 
have  always  been  enough  of  his  kidney,  whose  piety  hes  in  punishing, 
who  can  see  the  justice  of  grudges  but  not  of  gratitude.  For  you  shall 
never  convince  the  stronger  feeling  that  it  hath  not  the  stronger  reason, 
or  incline  him  who  hath  no  love  to  beheve  that  there  is  good  ground 
for  loving.  As  we  may  learn  from  the  order  of  word-making,  wherein 
love  precedeth  lovable" 

WHEN  Deronda  presented  his  letter  at 
the  banking-house  in  the  Schuster 
Strasse  at  Mainz,  and  asked  for  Joseph 
Kalonymos,  he  was  presently  shown  into  an 
inner  room,  where,  seated  at  a  table  arranging 
open  letters,  was  the  white-bearded  man  whom 
he  had  seen  the  year  before  in  the  synagogue  at 
Frankfort.  He  wore  his  hat,  —  it  seemed  to 
be  the  same  old  felt  hat  as  before,  —  and  near 
him  was  a  packed  portmanteau  with  a  wrap 
and  overcoat  upon  it.  On  seeing  Deronda 
enter  he  rose,  but  did  not  advance  or  put  out 
his  hand.  Looking  at  him  with  small  pene- 
trating eyes  which  glittered  like  black  gems  in 
the  midst  of  his  yellowish  face  and  white  hair, 
he  said  in  German,  — 

"  Good!  It  is  now  you  who  seek  me,  young 
man." 

"  Yes;  I  seek  you  with  gratitude,  as  a  friend 
of  my  grandfather's,"  said  Deronda,  "  and  I  am 
under  an  obligation  to  you  for  giving  yourself 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  251 


much  trouble  on  my  account."  He  spoke  with- 
out difficulty  in  that  liberal  German  tongue 
which  takes  many  strange  accents  to  its  mater- 
nal bosom. 

Kalonymos  now  put  out  his  hand  and  said 
cordially,  "So  —  you  are  no  longer  angry  at 
being  something  more  than  an  Englishman?  " 

"  On  the  contrary.  I  thank  you  heartily  for 
helping  to  save  me  from  remaining  in  ignorance 
of  my  parentage,  and  for  taking  care  of  the  chest 
that  my  grandfather  left  in  trust  for  me." 

"  Sit  down,  sit  down,"  said  Kalonymos,  in  a 
quick  undertone,  seating  himself  again,  and 
pointing  to  a  chair  near  him.  Then  deliberately 
laying  aside  his  hat  and  showing  a  head  thickly 
covered  with  white  hair,  he  stroked  and  clutched 
his  beard  while  he  looked  examiningly  at  the 
young  face  before  him.  The  moment  wrought 
strongly  on  Deronda's  imaginative  suscepti- 
bility: in  the  presence  of  one  linked  still  in 
zealous  friendship  with  the  grandfather  whose 
hope  had  yearned  towards  him  when  he  was  un- 
born, and  who  though  dead  was  yet  to  speak 
with  him  in  those  written  memorials  which, 
says  Milton,  "  contain  a  potency  of  life  in  them 
to  be  as  active  as  that  soul  whose  progeny  they 
are,"  he  seemed  to  himself  to  be  touching  the 
electric  chain  of  his  own  ancestry;  and  he  bore 
the  scrutinizing  look  of  Kalonymos  with  a  de- 
lighted awe,  something  like  what  one  feels  in 
the  solemn  commemoration  of  acts  done  long 
ago  but  still  telling  markedly  on  the  life  of  to- 
day. Impossible  for  men  of  duller  fibre  —  men 
whose  affection  is  not  ready  to  diffuse  itself 
through  the  wide  travel  of  imagination  —  to 


252  DANIEL  DERONDA 


comprehend,  perhaps  even  to  credit,  this  sensi- 
bihty  of  Deronda's;  but  it  subsisted,  Hke  their 
own  dulness,  notwithstanding  their  lack  of  be- 
Hef  in  it,  —  and  it  gave  his  face  an  expression 
which  seemed  very  satisfactory  to  the  observer. 

He  said  in  Hebrew,  quoting  from  one  of  the 
fine  hymns  in  the  Hebrew  hturgy,  "  As  thy 
goodness  has  been  great  to  the  former  genera- 
tions, even  so  may  it  be  to  the  latter."  Then 
after  pausing  a  little  he  began:  "  Young  man, 
I  rejoice  that  I  was  not  yet  set  off  again  on 
my  travels,  and  that  you  are  come  in  time  for 
me  to  see  the  image  of  my  friend  as  he  was 
in  his  youth,  —  no  longer  perverted  from  the 
fellowship  of  your  people,  —  no  longer  shrink- 
ing in  proud  wrath  from  the  touch  of  him  who 
seemed  to  be  claiming  you  as  a  Jew.  You  come 
with  thankfulness  yourself  to  claim  the  kindred 
and  heritage  that  wicked  contrivance  would  have 
robbed  you  of.  You  come  with  a  willing  soul 
to  declare  '  I  am  the  grandson  of  Daniel 
Charisi.'    Is  it  not  so?  " 

"Assuredly  it  is,"  said  Deronda.  "But  let 
me  say  that  I  should  at  no  time  have  been  in- 
clined to  treat  a  Jew  with  incivility  simply  be- 
cause he  was  a  Jew.  You  can  understand  that 
I  shrank  from  saying  to  a  stranger,  '  I  know 
nothing  of  my  mother.'  " 

"  A  sin,  a  sin!  "  said  Kalonymos,  putting  up 
his  hand  and  closing  his  eyes  in  disgust.  "  A 
robbery  of  our  people,  as  when  our  youths  and 
maidens  were  reared  for  the  Rorrian  Edom. 
But  it  is  frustrated.  I  have  frustrated  it. 
When  Daniel  Charisi  —  may  his  Rock  and  his 
Redeemer  guard  him!  —  when  Daniel  Charisi 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  253 


was  a  stripling  and  I  was  a  lad  little  above  his 
shoulder,  we  made  a  solemn  vow  always  to  be 
friends.  He  said,  '  Let  us  bind  ourselves  with 
duty,  as  if  we  were  sons  of  the  same  mother.' 
That  was  his  bent  from  first  to  last,  —  as  he 
said,  to  fortify  his  soul  with  bonds.  It  was  a 
saying  of  his,  '  Let  us  bind  love  with  duty;  for 
duty  is  the  love  of  law ;  and  law  is  the  nature  of 
the  Eternal.'  So  we  bound  ourselves.  And 
though  we  were  much  apart  in  our  later  life, 
the  bond  has  never  been  broken.  When  he  was 
dead,  they  sought  to  rob  him;  but  they  could 
not  rob  him  of  me.  I  rescued  that  remainder 
of  him  which  he  had  prized  and  preserved  for 
his  offspring.  And  I  have  restored  to  him  the 
offspring  they  had  robbed  him  of.  I  will  bring 
you  the  chest  forthwith." 

Kalonymos  left  the  room  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  returned  with  a  clerk  who  carried  the  chest, 
set  it  down  on  the  floor,  drew  off  a  leather 
cover,  and  went  out  again.  It  was  not  very 
large,  but  was  made  heavy  by  ornamental 
bracers  and  handles  of  gilt  iron.  The  wood  was 
beautifully  incised  with  Arabic  lettering. 

"So!"  said  Kalonymos,  returning  to  his 
seat.  "  And  here  is  the  curious  key,"  he  added, 
taking  it  from  a  small  leathern  bag.  "  Bestow 
^it  carefully.  I  trust  you  are  methodic  and 
wary."  He  gave  Deronda  the  monitory  and 
slightly  suspicious  look  with  which  age  is  apt  to 
commit  any  object  to  the  keeping  of  youth. 

"  I  shall  be  more  careful  of  this  than  of  an}^ 
other  property,"  said  Deronda,  smiling  and 
putting  the  key  in  his  breast-pocket.  "  I  never 
before  possessed  anything  that  was  a  sign  to 


254  DANIEL  DERONDA 


me  of  so  much  cherished  hope  and  effort.  And 
I  shall  never  forget  that  the  effort  was  partly 
yours.  Have  you  time  to  tell  me  more  of  my 
grandfather?  Or  shall  I  be  trespassing  in  stay- 
ing longer?  " 

"  Stay  yet  a  while.  In  an  hour  and  eighteen 
minutes  I  start  for  Trieste,"  said  Kalonymos, 
looking  at  his  watch,  "  and  presently  my  sons 
will  expect  my  attention.  Will  you  let  me  make 
you  known  to  them,  so  that  they  may  have  the 
pleasure  of  showing  hospitality  to  my  friend's 
grandson?  They  dwell  here  in  ease  and  luxury, 
though  I  choose  to  be  a  wanderer." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  w^ll  commend  me  to 
their  acquaintance  for  some  future  opportun- 
ity," said  Deronda.  "  There  are  pressing  claims 
calling  me  to  England,  —  friends  who  may  be 
much  in  need  of  my  presence.  I  have  been  kept 
away  from  them  too  long  by  unexpected  cir- 
cumstances. But  to  know  more  of  you  and  your 
family  would  be  motive  enough  to  bring  me 
again  to  Mainz." 

"  Good!  Me  you  will  hardly  find,  for  I  am 
beyond  my  threescore  years  and  ten,  and  I  am 
a  wanderer,  carrying  my  shroud  with  me.  But 
my  sons  and  their  children  dwell  here  in  wealth 
and  unity.  The  days  are  changed  for  us  in 
Mainz  since  our  people  were  slaughtered  whole- 
sale if  they  would  n't  be  baptized  wholesale : 
they  are  changed  for  us  since  Karl  the  Great 
fetched  my  ancestors  from  Italy  to  bring  some 
tincture  of  knowledge  to  our  rough  German 
brethren.  I  and  my  contemporaries  have  had 
to  fight  for  it  too.  Our  youth  fell  on  evil  days; 
but  this  we  have  won:  we  increase  our  wealth 


FRUIT  AND   SEED  255 


in  safety,  and  the  learning  of  all  Germany  is 
fed  and  fattened  by  Jewish  brains,  —  though 
they  keep  not  always  their  Jewish  hearts. 
Have  you  been  left  altogether  ignorant  of  your 
people's  life,  young  man?  " 

"  No,"  said  Deronda,  "  I  have  lately,  before 
I  had  any  true  suspicion  of  my  parentage,  been 
led  to  study  everything  belonging  to  their  his- 
tory with  more  interest  than  any  other  subject. 
It  turns  out  that  I  have  been  making  myself 
ready  to  understand  my  grandfather  a  little." 
He  was  anxious  lest  the  time  should  be  con- 
sumed before  this  circuitous  course  of  talk  could 
lead  them  back  to  the  topic  he  most  cared  about. 
Age  does  not  easily  distinguish  between  what 
it  needs  to  express  and  what  youth  needs  to 
know,  —  distance  seeming  to  level  the  objects 
of  memory ;  and  keenly  active  as  Joseph  Ka- 
lonymos  showed  himself,  an  inkstand  in  the 
wrong  place  would  have  hindered  his  imagina- 
tion from  getting  to  Beyrout:  he  had  been  used 
to  unite  restless  travel  with  punctilious  obser- 
vation. But  Deronda's  last  sentence  answered 
its  purpose. 

"  So,  —  you  would  perhaps  have  been  such 
a  man  as  he,  if  your  education  had  not  hindered ; 
for  you  are  like  him  in  features,  —  yet  not  alto- 
gether, young  man.  He  had  an  iron  will  in  his 
face:  it  braced  up  everybody  about  him.  When 
he  was  quite  young  he  had  already  got  one  deep 
upright  line  in  his  brow.  I  see  none  of  that  in 
you.  Daniel  Charisi  used  to  say,  '  Better  a 
wrong  will  than  a  wavering;  better  a  steadfast 
enemy  than  an  uncertain  friend;  better  a  false 
belief  than  no  belief  at  all.'    What  he  despised 


256  DANIEL  DERONDA 


most  was  indifference.  He  had  longer  reasons 
than  I  can  give  you." 

"  Yet  his  knowledge  was  not  narrow?  "  said 
Deronda,  with  a  tacit  reference  to  the  usual 
excuse  for  indecision,  —  that  it  comes  from 
knowing  too  much. 

"  Narrow?  No,"  said  Kalonymos,  shaking 
his  head  with  a  compassionate  smile.  "  From 
his  childhood  upward,  he  drank  in  learning  as 
easily  as  the  plant  sucks  up  water.  But  he 
early  took  to  medicine  and  theories  about  life 
and  health.  He  travelled  to  many  countries, 
and  spent  much  of  his  substance  in  seeing  and 
knowing.  What  he  used  to  insist  on  was  that 
the  strength  and  wealth  of  mankind  depended 
on  the  balance  of  separateness  and  communi- 
cation, and  he  was  bitterly  against  our  people 
losing  themselves  among  the  Gentiles.  'It's 
no  better,'  said  he,  '  than  the  many  sorts  of  grain 
going  back  from  their  variety  into  sameness.' 
He  mingled  all  sorts  of  learning;  and  in  that 
he  was  like  our  Arabic  writers  in  the  golden 
time.  We  studied  together,  but  he  went  beyond 
me.  Though  we  were  bosom  friends,  and  he 
poured  himself  out  to  me,  we  were  as  different 
as  the  inside  and  the  outside  of  the  bowl.  I 
stood  up  for  no  notions  of  my  own:  I  took 
Charisi's  sayings  as  I  took  the  shape  of  the 
trees :  they  were  there,  not  to  be  disputed  about. 
It  came  to  the  same  thing  in  both  of  us :  we  were 
both  faithful  Jews,  thankful  not  to  be  Gentiles. 
And  since  I  was  a  ripe  man,  I  have  been  what 
I  am  now,  for  all  but  age,  —  loving  to  wander, 
loving  transactions,  loving  to  behold  all  things, 
and  caring  nothing  about  hardship.  Charisi 


FRUIT  AND   SEED  257 


thought  continually  of  our  people's  future:  he 
went  with  all  his  soul  into  that  part  of  our 
religion;  I,  not.  So  we  have  freedom,  I  am  con- 
tent. Our  people  wandered  before  they  were 
driven.  Young  man,  when  I  am  in  the  East, 
I  lie  much  on  deck  and  watch  the  greater  stars. 
The  sight  of  them  satisfies  me.  I  know  them 
as  they  rise,  and  hunger  not  to  know  more. 
Charisi  was  satisfied  with  no  sight,  but  pieced 
it  out  with  what  had  been  before  and  what  would 
come  after.  Yet  we  loved  each  other,  and  as 
he  said,  we  bound  our  love  with  duty;  we 
solemnly  pledged  ourselves  to  help  and  defend 
each  other  to  the  last.  I  have  fulfilled  my 
pledge."  Here  Kalonymos  rose ;  and  Deronda, 
rising  also,  said,  — 

"  And  in  being  faithful  to  him  you  have 
caused  justice  to  be  done  to  me.  It  would  have 
been  a  robbery  of  me  too  that  I  should  never 
have  known  of  the  inheritance  he  had  prepared 
for  me.    I  thank  you  with  my  whole  soul." 

"  Be  worthy  of  him,  young  man.  What  is 
your  vocation?  "  This  question  was  put  with 
a  quick  abruptness  which  embarrassed  Deronda, 
who  did  not  feel  it  quite  honest  to  allege  his  law- 
reading  as  a  vocation.    He  answered,  — 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  have  any." 

"  Get  one,  get  one.  The  Jew  must  be  dili- 
gent. You  will  call  yourself  a  Jew  and  profess 
the  faith  of  your  fathers?"  said  Kalonymos, 
putting  his  hand  on  Deronda's  shoulder  and 
looking  sharply  in  his  face. 

"  I  shall  call  myself  a  Jew,"  said  Deronda, 
deliberately,  becoming  slightly  paler  under  the 
piercing  eyes  of  his  questioner.    "  But  I  will 

VOL.  XIV  — 17 


258  DANIEL  DERONDA 


not  say  that  I  shall  profess  to  believe  exactly 
as  my  fathers  have  believed.  Our  fathers  them- 
selves changed  the  horizon  of  their  belief  and 
learned  of  other  races.  But  I  think  I  can  main- 
tain my  grandfather's  notion  of  separateness 
with  communication.  I  hold  that  my  first  duty 
is  to  my  own  people,  and  if  there  is  anything 
to  be  done  towards  restoring  or  perfecting  their 
common  life,  I  shall  make  that  my  vocation." 

It  happened  to  Deronda  at  that  moment,  as 
it  has  often  happened  to  others,  that  the  need 
for  speech  made  an  epoch  in  resolve.  His  re- 
spect for  the  questioner  would  not  let  him 
decline  to  answer,  and  by  the  necessity  to  an- 
swer he  found  out  the  truth  for  himself. 

"  Ah,  you  argue  and  you  look  forward,  — 
you  are  Daniel  Charisi's  grandson,"  said  Ka- 
lonymos,  adding  a  benediction  in  Hebrew. 

With  that  they  parted;  and  almost  as  soon 
as  Deronda  was  in  London,  the  aged  man  was 
again  on  shipboard,  greeting  the  friendly  stars 
without  any  eager  curiosity. 


CHAPTER  IV 


Within  the  gentle  heart  Love  shelters  him, 
As  birds  within  the  green  shade  of  the  grove. 

Before  the  gentle  heart,  in  Nature's  scheme. 
Love  was  not,  nor  the  gentle  heart  ere  Love. 

Gtjido  Guinicelli  (Rossetti's  Translation). 

THERE  was  another  house  besides  the 
white  house  at  Pennicote,  another  breast 
besides  Rex  Gascoigne's,  in  which  the 
news  of  Grandcourt's  death  caused  both  strong 
agitation  and  the  effort  to  repress  it. 

It  was  Hans  Meyrick's  habit  to  send  or  bring 
in  the  "  Times  "for  his  mother's  reading.  She 
was  a  great  reader  of  news,  from  the  widest- 
reaching  pohtics  to  the  Ust  of  marriages;  the 
latter,  she  said,  giving  her  the  pleasant  sense 
of  finishing  the  fashionable  novels  without  hav- 
ing read  them,  and  seeing  the  heroes  and  hero- 
ines happy  without  knowing  what  poor  creatures 
they  were.  On  a  Wednesday  there  were  reasons 
why  Hans  always  chose  to  bring  the  paper, 
and  to  do  so  about  the  time  that  Mirah  had 
nearly  ended  giving  Mab  her  weekly  lesson, 
avowing  that  he  came  then  because  he  wanted 
to  hear  Mirah  sing.  But  on  the  particular 
Wednesday  now  in  question,  after  entering  the 
house  as  quietly  as  usual  with  his  latch-key,  he 
appeared  in  the  parlour,  shaking  the  "  Times  " 
aloft  with  a  crackling  noise,  in  remorseless  in- 
terruption of  Mab's  attempt  to  render  Lascia 
ch'io  pian^a  with  a  remote  imitation  of  her 
teacher.    Piano  and  song  ceased  immediately: 


260  DANIEL  DERONDA 


Mirah,  who  had  been  playing  the  accompani-  ] 
ment,   involuntarily   started   up   and  turned 
round,  the  crackling  sound,  after  the  occasional 

trick  of  sounds,  having  seemed  to  her  some-  i 

thing  thunderous ;  and  Mab  said,  —  ] 

"  O-o-o,  Hans!   why  do  you  bring  a  more  ; 

horrible  noise  than  my  singing?  "  \ 

"What  on  earth  is  the  wonderful  news?"  ^ 

said  Mrs.  Meyrick,  who  was  the  only  other  per-  j 

son  in  the  room.     "  Anything  about  Italy,  —  i 

anything    about    the    Austrians    giving    up  - 

Venice?"  \ 

"  Nothing  about  Italy,  but  something  from  | 

Italy,"  said  Hans,  with  a  peculiarity  in  his  tone  ' 

and  manner  which  set  his  mother  interpreting.  ; 

Imagine  how  some  of  us  feel  and  behave  when  j 

an  event,  not  disagreeable,  seems  to  be  confirm-  | 

ing  and  carrying  out  our  private  constructions.  1 

We  say,  "  What  do  you  think?  "  in  a  pregnant  | 

tone  to  some  innocent  person  who  has  not  em-  ' 

barked  his  wisdom  in  the  same  boat  ^ith  ours,  [ 
and  finds  our  information  flat. 

"Nothing  bad?"  said  Mrs.  Meyrick,  anx- 
iously, thinking  immediately  of  Deronda;  and 

Mirah's  heart  had  been  already  clutched  by  the  ^ 

same  thought.  j 

"  Not  bad  for  anybody  we  care  much  about,"  i 

said  Hans,  quickly;  "  rather  uncommonly  lucky,  ; 

I  think.     I  never  knew  anybody  die  conven-  ; 

iently  before.  Considering  what  a  dear  gazelle  j 
I  am,  I  am  constantly  wondering  to  find  myself 

alive."  .  i 

"  Oh  me,  Hans!  "  said  Mab,  impatiently,  "if 
you  must  talk  of  yourself,  let  it  be  behind  your 
own  back.    What  is  it  that  has  happened?  " 


FRUIT  AND  SEED 


261 


"  Duke  Alfonso  is  drowned,  and  the  Duchess 
is  ahve,  that 's  all,"  said  Hans,  putting  the  paper 
before  Mrs.  Meyrick,  with  his  finger  against  a 
paragraph.  "  But  more  than  all  is  —  Deronda 
was  at  Genoa  in  the  same  hotel  with  them,  and 
he  saw  her  brought  in  by  the  fishermen,  who  had 
got  her  out  of  the  water  time  enough  to  save 
her  from  any  harm.  It  seems  they  saw  her 
jump  in  after  her  husband,  —  which  was  a  less 
judicious  action  than  I  should  have  expected 
of  the  Duchess.  However,  Deronda  is  a  lucky 
fellow  in  being  there  to  take  care  of  her." 

Mirah  had  sunk  on  the  music-stool  again, 
with  her  eyelids  down  and  her  hands  tightly 
clasped;  and  Mrs.  Meyrick,  giving  up  the  paper 
to  Mab,  said,  — 

"  Poor  thing!  she  must  have  been  fond  of  her 
husband,  to  jump  in  after  him." 

"  It  was  an  inadvertence,  —  a  little  absence 
of  mind,"  said  Hans,  creasing  his  face  roguishly, 
and  throwing  himself  into  a  chair  not  far  from 
Mirah.  "  Who  can  be  fond  of  a  jealous  bary- 
tone, with  freezing  glances,  always  singing 
asides?  —  that  was  the  husband's  role,  depend 
upon  it.  Nothing  can  be  neater  than  his  get- 
ting drov/ned.  The  Duchess  is  at  liberty  now 
to  marry  a  man  with  a  fine  head  of  hair,  and 
glances  that  will  melt  instead  of  freezing  her. 
And  I  shall  be  invited  to  the  vv^dding." 

Here  Mirah  started  from  her  sitting  posture, 
and  fixing  her  eyes  on  Hans  with  an  angry 
gleam  in  them,  she  said,  in  the  deeply  shaken 
voice  of  indignation,  — 

"  Mr.  Hans,  you  ought  not  to  speak  in  that 
way.   Mr.  Deronda  would  not  like  you  to  speak 


262  DANIEL  DERONDA 


so.  Why  will  you  say  he  is  lucky,  —  why  will 
you  use  words  of  that  sort  about  life  and  death, 
—  when  what  is  life  to  one  is  death  to  another? 
How  do  you  know  it  would  be  lucky  if  he  loved 
Mrs.  Grandcourt?  It  might  be  a  great  evil 
to  him.  She  would  take  him  away  from  my 
brother,  —  I  know  she  would.  Mr.  Deronda 
would  not  call  that  lucky,  —  to  pierce  my 
brother's  heart." 

All  three  were  struck  with  the  sudden  trans- 
formation. Mirah's  face,  with  a  look  of  anger 
that  might  have  suited  Ithuriel,  pale  even  to  the 
lips  that  were  usually  so  rich  of  tint,  was  not 
far  from  poor  Hans,  who  sat  transfixed,  blush- 
ing under  it  as  if  he  had  been  the  girl,  while 
he  said  nervously,  — 

"  I  am  a  fool  and  a  brute,  and  I  withdraw 
every  word.  I  '11  go  and  hang  myself  like 
Judas,  —  if  it 's  allowable  to  mention  him." 
Even  in  Hans's  sorrowful  moments,  his  impro- 
vised words  had  inevitably  some  drollery. 

But  Mirah's  anger  was  not  appeased;  how 
could  it  be  ?  She  had  burst  into  indignant  speech 
as  creatures  in  intense  pain  bite  and  make  their 
teeth  meet,  even  through  their  own  flesh,  by  way 
of  making  their  agony  bearable.  She  said  no 
more,  but,  seating  herself  at  the  piano,  pressed 
the  sheet  of  music  before  her,  as  if  she  thought 
of  beginning  to  play  again. 

It  was  Mab  who  spoke,  while  Mrs.  Meyrick's 
face  seemed  to  reflect  some  of  Hans's  dis- 
comfort. 

"  Mirah  is  quite  right  to  scold  you,  Hans. 
You  are  always  taking  Mr.  Deronda's  name  in 
vain.    And  it  is  horrible,  joking  in  that  way 


FRUIT  AND   SEED  263 

about  his  marrying  Mrs.  Grandcourt.  Men's 
minds  must  be  very  black,  I  think,"  ended  Mab, 
with  much  scorn. 

"  Quite  true,  my  dear,"  said  Hans,  in  a  low 
tone,  rising"  and  turning  on  his  heel  to  walk 
towards  the  back  window. 

"We  had  better  go  on,  Mab;  you  have  not 
given  your  full  time  to  the  lesson,"  said  Mirah, 
in  a  higher  tone  than  usual.  "  Will  you  sing 
this  again,  or  shall  I  sing  it  to  you?  " 

"  Oh,  please  sing  it  to  me,"  said  Mab,  rejoiced 
to  take  no  more  notice  of  what  had  happened. 

And  Mirah  immediatel}^  sang  Lascia  cliio 
pianga,  giving  forth  its  melodious  sobs  and  cries 
with  new  fulness  and  energy.  Hans  paused  in 
his  walk  and  leaned  against  the  mantelpiece, 
keeping  his  *  eyes  carefully  away  from  his 
mother's.  When  Mirah  had  sung  her  last  note 
and  touched  the  last  chord,  she  rose  and  said,* 
"  I  must  go  home  now.    Ezra  expects  me." 

She  gave  her  hand  silently  to  Mrs.  Meyrick 
and  hung  back  a  little,  not  daring  to  look  at 
her,  instead  of  kissing  her  as  usual.  But  the 
little  mother  drew  Mirah's  face  down  to  hers, 
and  said  soothingly,  "  God  bless  you,  my  dear." 
Mirah  felt  that  she  had  committed  an  offence 
against  Mrs.  Meyrick  by  angrily  rebuking 
Hans,  and  mixed  with  the  rest  of  her  suffering 
was  the  sense  that  she  had  shown  something  like 
a  proud  ingratitude,  an  unbecoming  assertion 
of  superiority.  And  her  friend  had  divined  this 
compunction. 

Meanwhile  Hans  had  seized  his  wide-awake, 
and  was  ready  to  open  the  door. 

"  Now,  Hans,"  said  Mab,  with  what  was 


264  DANIEL  DERONDA 


really  a  sister's  tenderness  cunningly  disguised, 
"  you  are  not  going  to  walk  home  with  Mir  ah. 
I  am  sure  she  would  rather  not.  You  are  so 
dreadfully  disagreeable  to-day." 

"  I  shall  go  to  take  care  of  her,  if  she  does  not 
forbid  me,"  said  Hans,  opening  the  door. 

Mirah  said  nothing,  and  when  he  had  opened 
the  outer  door  for  her  and  closed  it  behind  him, 
he  walked  by  her  side  unforbidden.  She  had 
not  the  courage  to  begin  speaking  to  him  again, 
—  conscious  that  she  had  perhaps  been  unbe- 
comingly severe  in  her  words  to  him,  yet  finding 
only  severer  words  behind  them  in  her  heart. 
Besides,  she  was  pressed  upon  by  a  crowd  of 
thoughts  thrusting  themselves  forward  as  inter- 
preters of  that  consciousness  which  still  remained 
unuttered  to  herself. 

Hans,  on  his  side,  had  a  mind  equally  busy. 
Mirah's  anger  had  waked  in  him  a  new  percep- 
tion, and  with  it  the  unpleasant  sense  that  he 
was  a  dolt  not  to  have  had  it  before.  Suppose 
Mirah's  heart  were  entirely  preoccupied  with 
Deronda  in  another  character  than  that  of  her 
own  and,  her  brother's  benefactor:  the  supposi- 
tion was  attended  in  Hans's  mind  with  anxieties 
which,  to  do  him  justice,  were  not  altogether 
selfish.  He  had  a  strong  persuasion,  which  only 
direct  evidence  to  the  contrary  could  have  dis- 
sipated, that  there  was  a  serious  attachment 
between  Deronda  and  Mrs.  Grandcourt;  he 
had  pieced  together  many  fragments  of  obser- 
vation and  gradually  gathered  knowledge,  com- 
pleted by  what  his  sisters  had  heard  from  Anna 
Gascoigne,  which  convinced  him  not  only  that 
Mrs.  Grandcourt  had  a  passion  for  Deronda, 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  265 


but  also,  notwithstanding  his  friend's  austere 
self -repression,  that  Deronda's  susceptibility 
about  her  was  the  sign  of  concealed  love.  Some 
men,  having  such  a  conviction,  would  have 
avoided  allusions  that  could  have  roused  that 
susceptibility;  but  Hans's  talk  naturally  flut- 
tered towards  mischief,  and  he  was  given  to  a 
form  of  experiment  on  live  animals  which  con- 
sisted in  irritating  his  friends  playfully.  His 
experiments  had  ended  in  satisfying  him  that 
what  he  thought  likely  was  true. 

On  the  other  hand,  any  susceptibility  De- 
ronda  had  manifested  about  a  lover's  attentions 
being  shown  to  Mirah,  Hans  took  to  be  suffi- 
ciently accounted  for  by  the  alleged  reason, 
namely,  her  dependent  position :  for  he  credited 
his  friend  with  all  possible  unselfish  anxiety  for 
those  whom  he  could  rescue  or  protect.  And 
Deronda's  insistence  that  Mirah  would  never 
marry  one  who  was  not  a  Jew  necessarily 
seemed  to  exclude  himself,  since  Hans  shared 
the  ordinary  opinion,  which  he  knew  nothing  to 
disturb,  that  Deronda  was  the  son  of  Sir  Hugo 
Mallinger. 

Thus  he  felt  himself  in  clearness  about  the 
state  of  Deronda's  affections;  but  now  the 
events  which  really  struck  him  as  concurring 
towards  the  desirable  union  with  Mrs.  Grand- 
court,  had  called  forth  a  flash  of  revelation  from 
Mirah,  —  a  betrayal  of  her  passionate  feeling 
on  this  subject  which  made  him  melancholy  on 
her  account  as  well  as  his  own,  —  yet  on  the 
whole  less  melancholy  than  if  he  had  imagined 
Deronda's  hopes  fixed  on  her.  It  is  not  sub- 
lime, but  it  is  common,  for  a  man  to  see  the 


266 


DANIEL  DERONDA 


beloved  object  unhappy  because  his  rival  loves 
another,  with  more  fortitude  and  a  milder 
jealousy  than  if  he  saw  her  entirely  happy  in  his 
rival.  At  least  it  was  so  with  the  mercurial 
Hans,  who  fluctuated  between  the  contradic- 
tory states,  of  feeling  wounded  because  Mirah 
was  wounded,  and  of  being  almost  obliged  to 
Deronda  for  loving  somebody  else.  It  was  im- 
possible for  him  to  give  Mirah  any  direct  sign 
of  the  way  in  which  he  had  understood  her 
anger,  yet  he  longed  that  his  speechless  com- 
panionship should  be  eloquent  in  a  tender,  peni- 
tent sympathy  which  is  an  admissible  form  of 
wooing  a  bruised  heart. 

Thus  the  two  went  side  by  side  in  a  com- 
panionship that  yet  seemed  an  agitated  com- 
munication, like  that  of  two  chords  whose  quick 
vibrations  lie  outside  our  hearing.  But  when 
they  reached  the  door  of  Mirah's  home,  and 
Hans  said  "  Good-by,"  putting  out  his  hand 
with  an  appealingly  look  of  penitence,  she  met 
the  look  with  melancholy  gentleness,  and  said, 
"  Will  you  not  come  in  and  see  my  brother?  " 

Hans  could  not  but  interpret  this  invitation 
as  a  sign  of  pardon.  He  had  not  enough  under- 
standing of  what  Mirah's  nature  had  been 
wrought  into  by  her  early  experience,  to  divine 
how  the  very  strength  of  her  late  excitement 
had  made  it  pass  the  more  quickly  into  a  resolute 
acceptance  of  pain.  When  he  had  said,  "  If 
you  will  let  me,"  and  they  went  in  together, 
half  his  grief  was  gone,  and  he  was  spinning  a 
little  romance  of  how  his  devotion  might  make 
him  indispensable  to  Mirah  in  proportion  as 
Deronda  gave  his  devotion  elsewhere.  This 


FRUIT  AND   SEED  267 


was  quite  fair,  since  his  friend  was  provided  for 
according  to  his  own  heart ;  and  on  the  question 
of  Judaism  Hans  felt  thoroughly  fortified: 
who  ever  heard  in  tale  or  history  that  a  woman's 
love  went  in  the  track  of  her  race  and  religion? 
Moslem  and  Jewish  damsels  were  always  at- 
tracted towards  Christians,  and  now  if  Mirah's 
heart  had  gone  forth  too  precipitately  towards 
Deronda,  here  was  another  case  in  point.  Hans 
was  wont  to  make  merry  with  his  own  argu- 
ments, to  call  himself  a  Giaour,  and  antithesis 
the  sole  clew  to  events;  but  he  believed  a  little 
in  what  he  laughed  at.  And  thus  his  birdlike 
hope,  constructed  on  the  lightest  principles, 
soared  again  in  spite  of  heavj  circumstance. 

They  found  Mordecai  looking  singularly 
happy,  holding  a  closed  letter  in  his  hand,  his 
eyes  glowing  with  a  quiet  triumph  which  in  his 
emaciated  face  gave  the  idea  of  a  conquest  over 
assailing  death.  After  the  greeting  between 
him  and  Hans,  Mirah  put  her  arm  round  her 
brother's  neck  and  looked  down  at  the  letter  in 
his  hand,  without  the  courage  to  ask  about  it, 
though  she  felt  sure  that  it  was  the  cause  of  his 
happiness. 

"  A  letter  from  Daniel  Deronda,"  said  Mor- 
decai, answering  her  look.  "  Brief  —  only  say- 
ing that  he  hopes  soon  to  return.  Unexpected 
claims  have  detained  him.  The  promise  of  see- 
ing him  again  is  like  the  bow  in  the  cloud  to 
me,"  continued  Mordecai,  looking  at  Hans; 
"  and  to  you  also  it  must  be  a  gladness.  For 
who  has  two  friends  like  him?  " 

While  Hans  was  answering,  Mirah  slipped 
away  to  her  own  room;  but  not  to  indulge  in 


268  DANIEL  DERONDA 


any  outburst  of  the  passion  within  her.  If  the 
angels  once  supposed  to  watch  the  toilet  of 
women  had  entered  the  little  chamber  with  her 
and  let  her  shut  the  door  behind  them,  they 
would  only  have  seen  her  take  off  her  hat,  sit 
down  and  press  her  hands  against  her  temples 
as  if  she  had  suddenly  reflected  that  her  head 
ached,;  then  rise  to  dash  cold  water  on  her  eyes 
and  brow  and  hair  till  her  backward  curls  were 
full  of  crystal  beads,  while  she  had  dried  her 
brow  and  looked  out  like  a  freshly  opened  flower 
from  among  the  dewy  tresses  of  the  woodland; 
then  give  deep  sighs  of  relief,  and  putting  on 
her  little  slippers,  sit  still  after  that  action  for 
a  couple  of  minutes,  which  seemed  to  her  so 
long,  so  full  of  things  to  come,  that  she  rose  with 
an  air  of  recollection,  and  went  down  to  make 
tea. 

Something  of  the  old  life  had  returned.  She 
had  been  used  to  remember  that  she  must  learn 
her  part,  must  go  to  rehearsal,  must  act  and 
sing  in  the  evening,  must  hide  her  feelings  from 
her  father;  and  the  more  painful  her  life  grew, 
the  more  she  had  been  used  to  hide.  The  force 
of  her  nature  had  long  found  its  chief  action 
in  resolute  endurance,  and  to-day  the  violence 
of  feeling  which  had  caused  the  first  jet  of  anger 
had  quickly  transformed  itself  into  a  steady 
facing  of  trouble,  the  well-known  companion 
of  her  young  years.  But  while  she  moved  about 
and  spoke  as  usual,  a  close  observer  might  have 
discerned  a  difference  between  this  apparent 
calm,  which  was  the  effect  of  restraining  energy, 
and  the  sweet  genuine  calm  of  the  months  when 
she  first  felt  a  return  of  her  infantine  happiness. 


FRUIT  AND   SEED  269 


Those  who  have  been  indulged  by  fortune  and 
have  always  thought  of  calamity  as  what  hap- 
pens to  others,  feel  a  blind  incredulous  rage  at 
the  reversal  of  their  lot,  and  half  believe  that 
their  wild  cries  will  alter  the  course  of  the  storm. 
Mirah  felt  no  such  surprise  when  familiar  Sor- 
row came  back  from  brief  absence,  and  sat  down 
with  her  according  to  the  old  use  and  wont. 
And  this  habit  of  expecting  trouble  rather  than 
joy  hindered  her  from  having  any  persistent 
belief  in  opposition  to  the  probabilities  which 
were  not  merely  suggested  by  Hans,  but  were 
supported  by  her  own  private  knowledge  and 
long-growing  presentiment.  An  attaclmient 
between  Deronda  and  Mrs.  Grandcourt,  to  end 
in  their  future  marriage,  had  the  aspect  of  a 
certainty  for  her  feeling.  There  had  been  no 
fault  in  him :  facts  had  ordered  themselves  so  that 
there  was  a  tie  between  him  and  this  woman  who 
belonged  to  another  world  than  her  own  and 
Ezra's,  —  nay,  who  seemed  another  sort  of  being 
than  Deronda,  something  foreign  that  would  be 
a  disturbance  in  his  life  instead  of  blending  with 
it.  Well,  well  —  but  if  it  could  have  been  de- 
ferred so  as  to  make  no  difference  while  Ezra 
was  there!  She  did  not  know  all  the  moment- 
ousness  of  the  relation  between  Deronda  and  her 
brother,  but  she  had  seen  and  instinctively  felt 
enough  to  forebode  its  being  incongruous  with 
any  close  tie  to  Mrs.  Grandcourt;  at  least  this 
was  the  clothing  that  IMirah  first  gave  to  her 
mortal  repugnance.  But  in  the  still,  quick 
action  of  her  consciousness,  thoughts  went  on 
like  changing  states  of  sensation  unbroken  by 
her  habitual  acts;   and  this  inward  language 


270  DANIEL  DERONDA 


soon  said  distinctly  that  the  mortal  repugnance 
would  remain  even  if  Ezra  were  secured  from 
loss. 

"  What  I  have  read  about  and  sung  about 
and  seen  acted,  is  happening  to  me,  —  this  that 
I  am  feeling  is  the  love  that  makes  jealousy:  " 
so  impartially  Mirah  summed  up  the  charge 
against  herself.  But  what  difference  could  this 
pain  of  hers  make  to  any  one  else?  It  must 
remain  as  exclusively  her  own,  and  hidden,  as 
her  early  yearning  and  devotion  towards  her 
lost  mother.  But  unlike  that  devotion,  it  was 
something  that  she  felt  to  be  a  misfortune  of 
her  nature,  —  a  discovery  that  what  should  have 
been  pure  gratitude  and  reverence  had  sunk 
into  selfish  pain,  that  the  feeling  she  had  hitherto 
delighted  to  pour  out  in  words  was  degraded 
into  something  she  was  ashamed  to  betray,  — 
an  absurd  longing  that  she  who  had  received 
all  and  given  nothing  should  be  of  importance 
where  she  was  of  no  importance,  —  an  angry 
feeling  towards  another  woman  who  possessed 
the  good  she.  wanted.  But  what  notion,  what 
vain  reliance  could  it  be  that  had  lain  darkly 
within  her  and  was  now  burning  itself  into 
sight  as  disappointment  and  jealousy?  It  was 
as  if  her  soul  had  been  steeped  in  poisonous 
passion  by  forgotten  dreams  of  deep  sleep,  and 
now  flamed  out  in  this  unaccountable  misery. 
For  with  her  waking  reason  she  had  never 
entertained  what  seemed  the  wildly  unfitting 
thought  that  Deronda  could  love  her.  The 
uneasiness  she  had  felt  before  had  been  compara- 
tively vague  and  easily  explained  as  part  of 
a  general  regret  that  he  was  only  a  visitant  in 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  271 


her  and  her  brother's  world,  from  which  the 
world  where  his  home  lay  was  as  different  as 
a  portico  with  lights  and  lackeys  was  different 
from  the  door  of  a  tent,  where  the  only  splen- 
dour came  from  the  mysterious  inaccessible 
stars.  But  her  feehng  was  no  longer  vague; 
the  cause  of  her  pain  —  the  image  of  Mrs. 
Grandcourt  by  Deronda's  side  drawing  him  far- 
ther and  farther  into  the  distance  was  as  defi- 
nite as  pincers  on  her  flesh.  In  the  Psyche- 
mould  of  Mirah's  frame  there  rested  a  fervid 
quality  of  emotion  sometimes  rashly  supposed 
to  require  the  bulk  of  a  Cleopatra;  her  impres- 
sions had  the  thoroughness  and  tenacity  that 
give  to  the  first  selection  of  passionate  feeling 
the  character  of  a  life-long  faithfulness.  And 
now  a  selection  had  declared  itself,  which  gave 
love  a  cruel  heart  of  jealousy:  she  had  been  used 
to  a  strong  repugnance  towards  certain  objects 
that  surrounded  her,  and  to  walk  inwardly  aloof 
from  them  while  they  touched  her  sense.  And 
now  her  repugnance  concentrated  itself  on  Mrs. 
Grandcourt,  of  whom  she  involuntarily  con- 
ceived more  evil  than  she  knew.  "  I  could  bear 
everything  that  used  to  be,  —  but  this  is  worse, 
—  this  is  worse,  —  I  used  not  to  have  horrible 
feelings!  "  said  the  poor  child  in  a  loud  whisper 
to  her  pillow.  Strange  that  she  should  have 
to  pray  against  any  feeling  which  concerned 
Deronda ! 

But  this  conclusion  had  been  reached  through 
an  evening  spent  in  attending  to  Mordecai, 
whose  exaltation  of  spirit  in  the  prospect  of 
seeing  his  friend  again,  disposed  him  to  utter 
many  thoughts  aloud  to  Mirah,  though  such 


272  DANIEL  DERONDA 


communication  was  often  interrupted  by  inter- 
vals apparently  filled  with  an  inward  utterance 
that  animated  his  eyes  and  gave  an  occasional 
silent  action  to  his  lips.  One  thought  especially 
occupied  him. 

"  Seest  thou,  Mirah,"  he  said  once,  after  a 
long  silence,  "  the  Shemah,  wherein  we  briefly 
confess  the  divine  Unity,  is  the  chief  devotional 
exercise  of  the  Hebrew;  and  this  made  our  re- 
ligion the  fundamental  religion  for  the  whole 
world;  for  the  divine  Unity  embraced  as  its 
consequence  the  ultimate  unity  of  mankind. 
See,  then,  —  the  nation  which  has  been  scoifed 
at  for  its  separateness,  has  given  a  binding 
theory  to  the  human  race.  Now,  in  complete 
unity  a  part  possesses  the  whole  as  the  whole 
possesses  every  part;  and  in  this  way  human 
life  is  tending  toward  the  image  of  the  Supreme 
Unity:  for  as  our  life  becomes  more  spiritual 
by  capacity  of  thought,  and  joy  therein,  pos- 
session tends  to  become  more  universal,  being 
independent  of  gross  material  contact;  so  that 
in  a  brief  day  the  soul  of  a  man  may  know  in 
fuller  volume  the  good  which  has  been  and  is, 
nay,  is  to  come,  than  all  he  could  possess  in  a 
whole  life  where  he  had  to  follow  the  creeping 
paths  of  the  senses.  In  this  moment,  my  sister, 
I  hold  the  joy  of  another's  future  within  me: 
a  future  which  these  eyes  will  not  see  and  which 
my  spirit  may  not  then  recognize  as  mine.  I 
recognize  it  now,  and  love  it  so  that  I  can  lay 
down  this  poor  life  upon  its  altar  and  say: 
'  Burn,  burn  indiscernibly  into  that  which  shall 
be,  which  is  my  love  and  not  me.'  Dost  thou 
understand,  Mirah?" 


FRUIT  AND   SEED  273 


"A  little,"  said  Mirah,  faintly;  "but  my 
mind  is  too  poor  to  have  felt  it." 

"  And  yet,"  said  Mordecai,  rather  insistently, 
"  women  are  specially  framed  for  the  love  which 
feels  possession  in  renouncing,  and  is  thus  a  fit 
image  of  what  I  mean.  Somewhere  in  the  later 
Midrash,  I  think,  is  the  story  of  a  Jewish  maiden 
who  loved  a  Gentile  king  so  well  that  this  was 
what  she  did:  she  entered  into  prison  and 
changed  clothes  with  the  woman  who  was  be- 
loved by  the  king,  that  she  might  deliver  that 
woman  from  death  by  dying  in  her  stead,  and 
leave  the  king  to  be  happy  in  his  love  which  was 
not  for  her.  This  is  the  surpassing  love,  that 
loses  self  in  the  object  of  love." 

"  No,  Ezra,  no,"  said  Mirah,  with  low-toned 
intensity,  "  that  was  not  it.  She  wanted  the 
king  when  she  was  dead  to  know  what  she  had 
done,  and  feel  that  she  was  better  than  the  other. 
It  was  her  strong  self,  wanting  to  conquer,  that 
made  her  die." 

Mordecai  was  silent  a  little,  and  then 
argued,  — 

"  That  might  be,  Mirah.  But  if  she  acted  so, 
believing  the  king  would  never  know?  " 

"  You  can  make  the  story  so  in  your  mind, 
Ezra,  because  you  are  great,  and  like  to 
fancy  the  greatest  that  could  be.  But  I  think 
it  was  not  really  like  that.  The  Jewish  girl 
must  have  had  jealousy  in  her  heart,  and  she 
wanted  somehow  to  have  the  first  place  in 
the  king's  mind.  That  is  what  she  would  die 
for." 

"  My  sister,  thou  hast  read  too  many  plays, 
where  the  writers  delight  in  showing  the  hum.an 

VOL.  xrv  — 18 


274  DANIEL  DERONDA 


passions  as  indwelling  demons,  unmixed  with  the 
relenting  and  devout  elements  of  the  soul.  Thou 
judgest  by  the  plays,  and  not  by  thy  own  heart, 
which  is  like  our  mother's." 
Mirah  made  no  answer. 


CHAPTER  V 


Das  Gliick  ist  eine  leichte  Dime, 
Und  weilt  nicht  gern  am  selben  Ort; 
Sie  streicht  das  Haar  dir  von  der  Stirne 
Und  kiisst  dich  rasch  und  flattert  fort. 

Frau  Ungliick  hat  im  Gegentheile 
Dich  liebefest  an's  Herz  gedriickt; 
Sie  sagt,  sie  habe  keine  Eile, 
Setzt  sich  zu  dir  ans  Bett  und  strickt. 

Heine. 

SOMETHING  which  Mirah  had  lately  been 
watching  for  as  the  fulfilment  of  a  threat, 
seemed  now  the  continued  visit  of  that 
familiar  sorrow  which  had  lately  come  back, 
bringing  abundant  luggage. 

Turning  out  of  Knightsbridge,  after  singing 
at  a  charitable  morning  concert  in  a  wealthy 
house,  where  she  had  been  recommended  by  Kles- 
mer,  and  where  there  had  been  the  usual  groups 
outside  to  see  the  departing  company,  she  began 
to  feel  herself  dogged  by  footsteps  that  kept  an 
even  pace  with  her  own.  Her  concert  dress  be- 
ing simple  black,  over  which  she  had  thrown  a 
dust  cloak,  could  not  make  her  an  object  of  un- 
pleasant attention,  and  render  walking  an  im- 
prudence; but  this  reflection  did  not  occur  to 
Mirah:  another  kind  of  alarm  lay  uppermost  in 
her  mind.  She  immediately  thought  of  her 
father,  and  could  no  more  look  round  than  if  she 
had  felt  herself  tracked  by  a  ghost.  To  turn  and 
face  him  would  be  voluntarily  to  meet  the  rush 
of  emotions  which  beforehand  seemed  intolerable. 


276  DANIEL  DERONDA 

If  it  were  her  father,  he  must  mean  to  claim  rec- 
ognition, and  he  would  oblige  her  to  face  him. 
She  must  wait  for  that  compulsion.  She  walked 
on,  not  quickening  her  pace,  —  of  what  use  was 
that?  —  but  picturing  what  was  about  to  happen 
as  if  she  had  the  full  certainty  that  the  man  be- 
hind her  was  her  father;  and  along  with  her 
picturing  went  a  regret  that  she  had  given  her 
word  to  Mrs.  Meyrick  not  to  use  any  conceal- 
ment about  him.  The  regret  at  last  urged  her, 
at  least,  to  try  and  hinder  any  sudden  betrayal 
that  would  cause  her  brother  an  unnecessary 
shock.  Under  the  pressure  of  this  motive,  she 
resolved  to  turn  before  she  reached  her  own  door, 
and  firmly  will  the  encounter  instead  of  merely 
submitting  to  it.  She  had  already  reached  the 
entrance  of  the  small  square  where  her  home  lay, 
and  had  made  up  her  mind  to  turn,  when  she  felt 
her  embodied  presentiment  getting  closer  to  her, 
then  slipping  to  her  side,  grasping  her  wrist, 
and  saying,  with  a  persuasive  curl  of  accent, 
"  Mirah!" 

She  paused  at  once  without  any  start;  it  was 
the  voice  she  expected,  and  she  was  meeting  the 
expected  eyes.  Her  face  was  as  grave  as  if  she 
had  been  looking  at  her  executioner,  while  his 
was  adjusted  to  the  intention  of  soothing  and 
propitiating  her.  Once  a  handsome  face,  with 
bright  colour,  it  was  now  sallow  and  deep-lined, 
and  had  that  peculiar  impress  of  impudent 
suavity  which  comes  from  courting  favour  while 
accepting  disrespect.  He  was  lightly  made  and 
active,  with  something  of  youth  about  him  which 
made  the  signs  of  age  seem  a  disguise;  and  in 
reality  he  was  hardly  fifty-seven.   His  dress  was 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  277 


shabby,  as  when  she  had  seen  him  before.  The 
presence  of  this  unreverend  father  now,  more 
than  ever,  affected  Mirah  wdth  the  mingled  an- 
guish of  shame  and  grief,  repulsion  and  pity,  — 
more  than  ever,  now  that  her  own  world  was 
changed  into  one  where  there  was  no  comrade- 
ship to  fence  him  from  scorn  and  contempt. 

Slowly,  with  a  sad,  tremulous  voice,  she  said, 
"  It  is  you,  father." 

"  Why  did  you  run  away  from  me,  child?  " 
he  began,  with  rapid  speech  which  was  meant  to 
have  a  tone  of  tender  remonstrance,  accompanied 
with  various  quick  gestures  like  an  abbreviated 
finger-language.  "  What  were  you  afraid  of? 
You  knew  I  never  made  you  do  anything  against 
your  will.  It  was  for  your  sake  I  broke  up  your 
engagement  in  the  Vorstadt,  because  I  saw  it 
did  n't  suit  you,  and  you  repaid  me  by  leaving 
me  to  the  bad  times  that  came  in  consequence. 
I  had  made  an  easier  engagement  for  you  at  the 
Vorstadt  Theatre  in  Dresden:  I  did  n't  tell  you, 
because  I  wanted  to  take  you  by  surprise.  And 
you  left  me  planted  there,  —  obliged  to  make 
myself  scarce  because  I  had  broken  contract. 
That  was  hard  lines  for  me,  after  I  had  given  up 
everything  for  the  sake  of  getting  you  an  educa- 
tion v/hich  was  to  be  a  fortune  to  you.  What 
father  devoted  himself  to  his  daughter  more  than 
I  did  to  you?  You  know  how  I  bore  that  disap- 
pointment in  your  voice,  and  made  the  best  of  it ; 
and  when  I  had  nobody  besides  you,  and  was 
getting  broken,  as  a  man  must  who  has  had  to 
fight  his  way  with  his  brains,  —  you  chose  that 
time  to  leave  me.  Who  else  was  it  you  owed 
everything  to,  if  not  to  me  ?  and  where  was  your 


278  DANIEL  DERONDA 


feeling  in  return?  For  what  my  daughter  cared, 
I  might  have  died  in  a  ditch." 

Lapidoth  stopped  short  here,  not  from  lack  of 
invention,  but  because  he  had  reached  a  pathetic 
climax,  and  gave  a  sudden  sob,  like  a  woman's, 
taking  out  hastily  an  old  yellow  silk  handkerchief. 
He  really  felt  that  his  daughter  had  treated  him 
ill,  —  a  sort  of  sensibility  which  is  naturally 
strong  in  unscrupulous  persons,  who  put  down 
what  is  owing  to  them,  without  any  per  contra. 
Mirah,  in  spite  of  that  sob,  had  energy  enough 
not  to  let  him  suppose  that  he  deceived  her. 
She  answered  more  firmly,  though  it  was  the 
first  time  she  had  ever  used  accusing  words  to 
him. 

"  You  know  why  I  left  you,  father;  and  I  had 
reason  to  distrust  you,  because  I  felt  sure  that 
you  had  deceived  my  mother.  If  I  could  have 
trusted  you,  I  would  have  stayed  with  you  and 
worked  for  you." 

"  I  never  meant  to  deceive  your  mother, 
Mirah,"  said  Lapidoth,  putting  back  his  hand- 
kerchief, but  beginning  with  a  voice  that  seemed 
to  struggle  against  further  sobbing.  "  I  meant 
to  take  you  back  to  her,  but  chances  hindered  me 
just  at  the  time,  and  then  there  came  information 
of  her  death.  It  was  better  for  you  that  I  should 
stay  where  I  was,  and  your  brother  could  take 
care  of  himself.  Nobody  had  any  claim  on  me  but 
you.  I  had  word  of  your  mother's  death  from 
a  particular  friend,  who  had  undertaken  to  man- 
age things  for  me,  and  I  sent  him  over  money  to 
pay  expenses.  There 's  one  chance,  to  be  sure," 
—  Lapidoth  had  quickly  conceived  that  he  must 
guard  against  something  unlikely,  yet  possible. 


FRUIT  AND  SEED 


279 


—  "he  may  have  written  me  Hes  for  the  sake  of 
getting  the  money  out  of  me." 

Mirah  made  no  answer ;  she  could  not  bear  to 
utter  the  only  true  one,  —  "I  don't  believe  one 
word  of  what  you  say,"  —  and  she  simply 
showed  a  wish  that  they  should  walk  on,  feeling 
that  their  standing  still  might  draw  down  un- 
pleasant notice.  Even  as  they  walked  along, 
their  companionship  might  well  have  made  a 
passer-by  turn  back  to  look  at  them.  The  figure 
of  Mirah,  with  her  beauty  set  off  by  the  quiet, 
careful  dress  of  an  English  lady,  made  a  strange 
pendant  to  this  shabby,  foreign-looking,  eager, 
and  gesticulating  man,  who  withal  had  an  in- 
effaceable jauntiness  of  air,  perhaps  due  to  the 
bushy  curls  of  his  grizzled  hair,  the  smallness  of 
his  hands  and  feet,  and  his  light  walk. 

"  You  seem  to  have  done  well  for  yourself, 
Mirah?  You  are  in  no  want,  I  see,"  said 
the  father,  looking  at  her  with  emphatic 
examination. 

"  Good  friends  who  found  me  in  distress  have 
helped  me  to  get  work,"  said  Mirah,  hardly 
knowing  what  she  actually  said,  from  being  occu- 
pied with  what  she  would  presently  have  to  say. 
"  I  give  lessons.  I  have  sung  in  private  houses. 
I  have  just  been  singing  at  a  private  concert." 
She  paused,  and  then  added,  with  significance, 
"  I  have  very  good  friends,  who  know  all  about 
me." 

"  And  you  would  be  ashamed  they  should  see 
your  father  in  this  plight?  No  wonder.  I  came 
to  England  with  no  prospect  but  the  chance  of 
finding  you.  It  was  a  mad  quest ;  but  a  father's 
heart  is  superstitious,  —  feels  a  loadstone  draw- 


280  DANIEL  DEROND A 

ing  it  somewhere  or  other.  I  might  have  done 
very  well,  staying  abroad :  when  I  had  n't  you 
to  take  care  of,  I  could  have  rolled  or  settled  as 
easily  as  a  ball ;  but  it 's  hard  being  lonely  in  the 
world,  when  your  spirit 's  beginning  to  break. 
And  I  thought  my  little  Mirah  would  repent 
leaving  her  father,  when  she  came  to  look  back. 
I  Ve  had  a  sharp  pinch  to  work  my  way ;  I  don't 
know  what  I  shall  come  down  to  next.  Talents 
like  mine  are  no  use  in  this  country.  When  a 
man 's  getting  out  at  elbows,  nobody  will  believe 
in  him.  I  could  n't  get  any  decent  employ  w  ith 
my  appearance.  I 've  been  obliged  to  go  pretty 
low  for  a  shilling  already." 

Mirah's  anxiety  was  quick  enough  to  imagine 
her  father's  sinking  into  a  further  degradation, 
which  she  was  bound  to  hinder  if  she  could.  But 
before  she  could  answer  his  string  of  inventive 
sentences,  delivered  with  as  much  glibness  as 
if  they  had  been  learned  by  rote,  he  added 
promptly,  — 

"  Where  do  you  live,  Mirah?  " 

"  Here  in  this  square.  We  are  not  far  from 
the  house." 

"  In  lodgings? " 

"  Yes." 

"  Any  one  to  take  care  of  you?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mirah  again,  looking  full  at  the 
keen  face  which  was  turned  towards  hers, — "  my 
brother." 

The  father's  eyelids  fluttered  as  if  the  light- 
ning had  come  across  them,  and  there  was  a  slight 
movement  of  the  shoulders.  But  he  said,  after  a 
just  perceptible  pause:  "  Ezra?  How  did  you 
know  —  how  did  you  find  him?  " 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  281 


"  That  would  take  long  to  tell.  Here  we  are 
at  the  door.  My  brother  would  not  wish  me  to 
close  it  on  you." 

Mirah  was  already  on  the  doorstep,  but  had 
her  face  turned  towards  her  father,  who  stood 
below  her  on  the  pavement.  Her  heart  had  be- 
gun to  beat  faster  with  the  prospect  of  what  was 
coming  in  the  presence  of  Ezra ;  and  already  in 
this  attitude  of  giving  leave  to  the  father  whom 
she  had  been  used  to  obey,  —  in  this  sight  of  him 
standing  below  her,  with  a  perceptible  shrinking 
from  the  admission  which  he  had  been  indi- 
rectly asking  for,  —  she  had  a  pang  of  the  pecul- 
iar, sympathetic  humiliation  and  shame  —  the 
stabbed  heart  of  reverence  —  which  belongs  to  a 
nature  intensely  filial. 

"  Stay  a  minute,  LiehchenJ'  said  Lapidoth, 
speaking  in  a  lowered  tone;  "  what  sort  of  man 
has  Ezra  turned  out?  " 

"  A  good  man,  —  a  wonderful  man,"  said 
Mirah,  with  slow  emphasis,  trying  to  master  the 
agitation  which  made  her  voice  more  tremulous 
as  she  v/ent  on.  She  felt  urged  to  prepare  her 
father  for  the  complete  penetration  of  himself 
which  awaited  him.  "  But  he  was  very  poor 
when  my  friends  found  him  for  me,  —  a  poor 
workman.  Once  —  twelve  years  ago  —  he  was 
strong  and  happy,  going  to  the  East,  which  he 
loved  to  think  of;  and  my  mother  called  him 
back  because  —  because  she  had  lost  me.  And 
he  went  to  her,  and  took  care  of  her  through 
great  trouble,  and  worked  for  her  till  she  died,  — 
died  in  grief.  And  Ezra,  too,  had  lost  his  health 
and  strength.  The  cold  had  seized  him  coming 
back  to  my  mother,  because  she  was  forsaken. 


282  DANIEL  DERONDA 


For  years  he  has  been  getting  weaker,  —  always 
poor,  always  working,  —  but  full  of  knowledge, 
and  great-minded.  All  who  come  near  him  hon- 
our him.  To  stand  before  him  is  like  standing 
before  a  prophet  of  God,"  —  Mirah  ended  with 
difficulty,  her  heart  throbbing,  —  "  falsehoods 
are  no  use." 

She  had  cast  down  her  eyes  that  she  might  not 
see  her  father  while  she  spoke  the  last  words,  — 
unable  to  bear  the  ignoble  look  of  frustration 
that  gathered  in  his  face.  But  he  was  none  the 
less  quick  in  invention  and  decision. 

"  Mirah,  Liebchen/'  he  said,  in  the  old  caress- 
ing way,  "  should  n't  you  like  me  to  make  myself 
a  little  more  respectable  before  my  son  sees  me? 
If  I  had  a  little  sum  of  money,  I  could  fit  myself 
out  and  come  home  to  you  as  your  father  ought, 
and  then  I  could  offer  myself  for  some  decent 
place.  With  a  good  shirt  and  coat  on  my  back, 
people  would  be  glad  enough  to  have  me.  I 
could  offer  myself  for  a  courier,  if  I  did  n't  look 
like  a  broken-down  mountebank.  I  should  like 
to  be  with  my  children,  and  forget  and  forgive. 
But  you  have  never  seen  your  father  look  like 
this  before.  If  you  had  ten  pounds  at  hand,  — 
or  I  could  appoint  you  to  bring  it  me  somewhere, 
—  I  could  fit  myself  out  by  the  day  after  to- 
morrow." 

Mirah  felt  herself  under  a  temptation  which 
she  must  try  to  overcome.  She  answered,  oblig- 
ing herself  to  look  at  him  again,  — 

"  I  don't  like  to  deny  you  what  you  ask, 
father;  but  I  have  given  a  promise  not  to  do 
things  for  you  in  secret.  It  is  hard  to  see  you 
looking  needy ;  but  we  will  bear  that  for  a  little 


FRUIT  AND   SEED  283 


while;  and  then  you  can  have  new  clothes,  and 
we  can  pay  for  them."  Her  practical  sense  made 
her  see  now  what  was  Mrs.  Meyrick's  wisdom  in 
exacting  a  promise  from  her. 

Lapidoth's  good-humour  gave  way  a  little. 
He  said  with  a  sneer:  "  You  are  a  hard  and  fast 
young  lady,  —  you  Ve  been  learning  useful  vir- 
tues, —  keeping  promises  not  to  help  your  father 
with  a  pound  or  two  when  you  are  getting  money 
to  dress  yourself  in  silk, — your  father  who  made 
an  idol  of  you,  and  gave  up  the  best  part  of  his 
life  to  providing  for  you." 

"  It  seems  cruel,  —  I  know  it  seems  cruel," 
said  Mirah,  feeling  this  a  worse  moment  than 
when  she  meant  to  drown  herself.  Her  lips  were 
suddenly  pale.  "  But,  father,  it  is  more  cruel  to 
break  the  promises  people  trust  in.  That  broke 
my  mother's  heart,  —  it  has  broken  Ezra's  life. 
You  and  I  must  eat  now  this  bitterness  from 
what  has  been.  Bear  it.  Bear  to  come  in  and  be 
cared  for  as  you  are." 

"  To-morrow,  then,"  said  Lapidoth,  almost 
turning  on  his  heel  away  from  this  pale,  tremb- 
ling daughter,  who  seemed  now  to  have  got  the 
inconvenient  world  to  back  her;  but  he  quickly 
turned  on  it  again,  with  his  hands  feeling  about 
restlessly  in  his  pockets,  and  said,  with  some  re- 
turn to  his  appealing  tone:  "  I 'm  a  little  cut  up 
with  all  this,  Mirah.  I  shall  get  up  my  spirits 
by  to-morrow.  If  you 've  a  Httle  money  in  your 
pocket,  I  suppose  it  is  n't  against  your  promise 
to  give  me  a  trifle  —  to  buy  a  cigar  with." 

Mirah  could  not  ask  herself  another  question, 
—  could  not  do  anything  else  than  put  her  cold 
trembling  hands  in  her  pocket  for  her  portemon- 


284  DANIEL  DERONDA 


naie  and  hold  it  out.  Lapidoth  grasped  it  at 
once,  pressed  her  fingers  the  while,  said, 
"  Good-by,  my  little  girl,  —  to-morrow  then!  " 
and  left  her.  He  had  not  taken  many  steps 
before  he  looked  carefully  into  all  the  folds  of 
the  purse,  found  two  half-sovereigns  and  odd 
silver,  and,  pasted  against  the  folding  cover,  a 
bit  of  paper  on  which  Ezra  had  inscribed  in  a 
beautiful  Hebrew  character  tHe  name  of  his 
mother,  the  days  of  her  birth,  marriage,  and 
death,  and  the  prayer,  "  May  Mirah  be  delivered 
from  evil."  It  was  Mirah's  liking  to  have  this 
little  inscription  on  many  articles  that  she  used. 
The  father  read  it,  and  had  a  quick  vision  of  his 
marriage  day,  and  the  bright,  unblamed  young 
fellow  he  was  in  that  time;  teaching  many 
things,  but  expecting  by  and  by  to  get  money 
more  easily  by  writing;  and  very  fond  of  his 
beautiful  bride,  Sara,  —  crying  when  she  ex- 
pected him  to  cry,  and  reflecting  every  phase  of 
her  feeling  with  mimetic  susceptibility.  Lapi- 
doth had  travelled  a  long  way  from  that  young 
self,  and  thought  of  all  that  this  inscription  sig- 
nified with  an  unemotional  memory,  which  was 
like  the  ocular  perception  of  a  touch  to  one  who 
has  lost  the  sense  of  touch,  or  like  morsels  on  an 
untasting  palate,  having  shape  and  grain,  but  no 
flavour.  Among  the  things  we  may  gamble 
away  in  a  lazy  selfish  life  is  the  capacity  for  ruth, 
compunction,  or  any  unselfish  regret,  —  which 
we  may  come  to  long  for  as  one  in  slow  death 
longs  to  feel  laceration,  rather  than  be  conscious 
of  a  widening  margin  where  consciousness  once 
was.  Mirah's  purse  was  a  handsome  one, — a  gift 
to  her,  which  she  had  been  unable  to  reflect  about 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  285 


giving  away,  —  and  Lapidoth  jpresently  found 
himself  outside  of  his  reverie,  considering  what 
the  purse  would  fetch  in  addition  to  the  sum  it 
contained,  and  what  prospect  there  was  of  his  be- 
ing able  to  get  more  from  his  daughter  without 
submitting  to  adopt  a  penitential  form  of  life 
under  the  eyes  of  that  formidable  son.  On  such 
a  subject  his  susceptibilities  were  still  lively. 

Meanwhile  Mirah  had  entered  the  house  with 
her  power  of  reticence  overcome  by  the  cruelty 
of  her  pain.  She  found  her  brother  quietly  read- 
ing and  sifting  old  manuscripts  of  his  own, 
which  he  meant  to  consign  to  Deronda.  In  the 
reaction  from  the  long  effort  to  master  herself, 
she  fell  down  before  him  and  clasped  his  knees, 
sobbing,  and  crying,  "  Ezra,  Ezra!  " 

He  did  not  speak.  His  alarm  for  her  was 
spending  itself  on  conceiving  the  cause  of  her 
distress,  the  more  striking  from  the  novelty  in 
her  of  this  violent  manifestation.  But  Mirah's 
own  longing  was  to  be  able  to  speak  and  tell  him 
the  cause.  Presently  she  raised  her  hand,  and 
still  sobbing,  said  brokenly,  — 

"  Ezra,  my  father!  our  father!  He  followed 
me.  I  wanted  him  to  come  in.  I  said  you  would 
let  him  come  in.  And  he  said,  No,  he  would  not, 
—  not  now,  but  to-morrow.  And  he  begged  for 
money  from  me.  And  I  gave  him  my  purse,  and 
he  went  away." 

Mirah's  words  seemed  to  herself  to  express  all 
the  misery  she  felt  in  them.  Her  brother  found 
them  less  grievous  than  his  preconceptions,  and 
said  gently,  "  Wait  for  calm,  Mirah,  and  then 
tell  me  all,"  —  putting  off  her  hat  and  laying 
his  hands  tenderly  on  her  head.    She  felt  the 


286  DANIEL  DERONDA 


soothing  influence,  and  in  a  few  minutes  told  him 
as  exactly  as  she  could  all  that  had  happened. 

"  He  will  not  come  to-morrow,"  said  Morde- 
cai.  Neither  of  them  said  to  the  other  what  they 
both  thought ;  namely,  that  he  might  watch  for 
Mirah's  outgoings  and  beg  from  her  again. 

"  Seest  thou,"  he  presently  added,  "  our  lot  is 
the  lot  of  Israel.  The  grief  and  the  glory  are 
mingled  as  the  smoke  and  the  flame.  It  is  be- 
cause we  children  have  inherited  the  good  that  we 
feel  the  evil.  These  things  are  wedded  for  us,  as 
our  father  was  wedded  to  our  mother." 

The  surroundings  were  of  Brompton,  but  the 
voice  might  have  come  from  a  Rabbi  transmit- 
ting the  sentences  of  an  elder  time  to  be  registered 
in  Babli,  —  by  which  (to  our  ears)  affectionate- 
sounding  diminutive  is  meant  the  voluminous 
Babylonian  Talmud.  "  The  Omnipresent,"  said 
a  Rabbi,  "  is  occupied  in  making  marriages." 
The  levity  of  the  saying  lies  in  the  ear  of  him  who 
hears  it;  for  by  marriages  the  speaker  meant  all 
the  wondrous  combinations  of  the  universe  whose 
issue  makes  our  good  and  evil. 


CHAPTER  VI 


Moses,  trotz  seiner  Befeindung  der  Kunst,  dennoch  selber  ein  grosser 
Kiinstler  war  und  den  wahren  Kiinstlergeist  besass.  Nur  war  dieser 
Kiinstlergeist  bei  ihm,  wie  bei  seinen  agyptischen  Landsleuten,  nur 
auf  das  Colossale  und  Unverwiistliche  gerichtet.  Aber  nicht  wie 
die  Aegypter  formirte  er  seine  Kunstwerke  aus  Baekstein  und  Granit, 
sondern  er  baute  Menschenpyramiden,  er  meisselte  Menschen  Obe- 
lisken,  er  nahm  einen  armen  Hirtenstamm  und  Schuf  daraus  ein  Volk, 
das  ebenfalls  den  Jahrhunderten  trotzen  sollte  .  .  .  er  Schuf  Israel. 

Heine:  Gestandnisse. 

IMAGINE  the  difference  in  Deronda's  state 
of  mind  when  he  left  England  and  when  he 
returned  to  it.  He  had  set  out  for  Genoa  in 
total  uncertainty  how  far  the  actual  bent  of  his 
wishes  and  affections  would  be  encouraged,  — 
how  far  the  claims  revealed  to  him  might  draw 
him  into  new  paths,  far  away  from  the  tracks  his 
thoughts  had  lately  been  pursuing  with  a  consent 
of  desire  which  uncertainty  made  dangerous. 
He  came  back  with  something  like  a  discovered 
charter  warranting  the  inherited  right  that  his 
ambition  had  begun  to  yearn  for:  he  came  back 
with  what  was  better  than  freedom,  —  with  a 
duteous  bond  which  his  experience  had  been  pre- 
paring him  to  accept  gladly,  even  if  it  had  been 
attended  with  no  promise  of  satisfying  a  secret 
passionate  longing  never  yet  allowed  to  grow 
into  a  hope.  But  now  he  dared  avow  to  himself 
the  hidden  selection  of  his  love.  Since  the  hour 
when  he  left  the  house  at  Chelsea  in  full-hearted 
silence  under  the  effect  of  Mirah's  farewell  look 
and  words,  —  their  exquisite  appealiiigness  stir- 
ring in  him  that  deeply  laid  care  for  woman- 


288  DANIEL  DERONDA 


hood  which  had  begun  when  his  own  Hp  was  like 
a  girl's,  —  her  hold  on  his  feeling  had  helped  him 
to  be  blameless  in  word  and  deed  under  the  diffi- 
cult circumstances  we  know  of.  There  seemed 
no  likelihood  that  he  could  ever  woo  this  creature 
who  had  become  dear  to  him  amidst  associations 
that  forbade  wooing ;  yet  she  had  taken  her  place 
in  his  soul  as  a  beloved  type,  —  reducing  the 
power  of  other  fascination  and  making  a  differ- 
ence in  it  that  became  deficiency.  The  influence 
had  been  continually  strengthened.  It  had  lain  in 
the  course  of  poor  Gwendolen's  lot  that  her  de- 
pendence on  Deronda  tended  to  rouse  in  him  the 
enthusiasm  of  self -martyring  pity  rather  than  of 
personal  love,  and  his  less  constrained  tenderness 
flowed  with  the  fuller  stream  towards  an  indwell- 
ing image  in  all  things  unlike  Gwendolen.  Still 
more,  his  relation  to  Mordecai  had  brought  with 
it  a  new  nearness  to  Mirah  which  was  not  the  less 
agitating  because  there  was  no  apparent  change 
in  his  position  towards  her;  and  she  had  inevi- 
tably been  bound  up  in  all  the  thoughts  that 
made  him  shrink  from  an  issue  disappointing  to 
her  brother.  This  process  had  not  gone  on  un- 
consciously in  Deronda:  he  was  conscious  of  it 
as  we  are  of  some  covetousness  that  it  would  be 
better  to  nullify  by  encouraging  other  thoughts 
than  to  give  it  the  insistency  of  confession  even 
to  ourselves:  but  the  jealous  fire  had  leaped  out 
at  Hans's  pretensions,  and  when  his  mother  ac- 
cused him  of  being  in  love  with  a  Jewess,  any 
evasion  suddenly  seemed  an  infidelity.  His 
mother  had  compelled  him  to  a  decisive  acknowl- 
edgment of  his  love,  as  Joseph  Kalonymos  had 
compelled  him  to  a  definite  expression  of  his  re- 


FRUIT  AND   SEED  289 


solve.  This  new  state  of  decision  wrought  on 
Deronda  with  a  force  which  surprised  even  him- 
self. There  was  a  release  of  all  the  energy  which 
had  long  been  spent  in  self -checking  and  sup- 
pression because  of  doubtful  conditions ;  and  he 
was  ready  to  laugh  at  his  own  impetuosity  when, 
as  he  neared  England  on  his  way  from  Mainz, 
he  felt  the  remaining  distance  more  and  more  of 
an  obstruction.  It  was  as  if  he  had  found  an 
added  soul  in  finding  his  ancestry,  —  his  judg- 
ment no  longer  wandering  in  the  mazes  of  im- 
partial sympathy,  but  choosing,  with  that  noble 
partiality  which  is  man's  best  strength,  the  closer 
fellowship  that  makes  sympathy  practical,  —  ex- 
changing that  bird's-eye  reasonableness  which 
soars  to  avoid  preference  and  loses  all  sense 
of  quality,  for  the  generous  reasonableness  of 
drawing  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  men  of  like 
inheritance.  He  wanted  now  to  be  again  with 
Mordecai,  to  pour  forth  instead  of  restraining  his 
feeling,  to  admit  agreement  and  maintain  dissent, 
and  all  the  while  to  find  Mirah's  presence  without 
the  embarrassment  of  obviously  seeking  it,  to  see 
her  in  the  light  of  a  new  possibility,  to  interpret 
her  looks  and  words  from  a  new  starting-point. 
He  was  not  greatly  alarmed  about  the  eflPect  of 
Hans's  attentions,  but  he  had  a  presentiment 
that  her  feeling  towards  himself  had  from  the 
first  lain  in  a  channel  from  which  it  was  not  likely 
to  be  diverted  into  love.  To  astonish  a  woman 
by  turning  into  her  lover  when  she  has  been 
thinking  of  you  merely  as  a  Lord  Chancellor  is 
what  a  man  naturally  shrinks  from:  he  is  anx- 
ious to  create  an  easier  transition. 

What  wonder  that  Deronda  saw  no  other 

VOL.  XIV    -  19 


290  DANIEL  DERONDA 


course  than  to  go  straight  from  the  London  rail- 
way station  to  the  lodgings  in  that  small  square 
in  B  romp  ton?  Every  argument  was  in  favour 
of  his  losing  no  time.  He  had  promised  to  run 
down  the  next  day  to  see  Lady  Mallinger  at  the 
Abbey,  and  it  was  already  sunset.  He  wished  to 
deposit  the  precious  chest  with  Mordecai,  who 
would  study  its  contents,  both  in  his  absence  and 
in  company  with  him;  and  that  he  should  pay 
this  visit  without  pause  would  gratify  Mordecai's 
heart.  Hence,  and  for  other  reasons,  it  gratified 
Deronda's  heart.  The  strongest  tendencies  of 
his  nature  were  rushing  in  one  current,  —  the 
fervent  affectionateness  which  made  him  delight 
in  meeting  the  wish  of  beings  near  to  him,  and 
the  imaginative  need  of  some  far-reaching  rela- 
tion to  make  the  horizon  of  his  immediate,  daily 
acts.  It  has  to  be  admitted  that  in  this  classical, 
romantic,  world-historic  position  of  his,  bringing 
as  it  were  from  its  hiding-place  his  hereditary 
armour,  he  wore  —  but  so,  one  must  suppose, 
did  the  most  ancient  heroes,  whether  Semitic  or 
Japhetic  —  the  summer  costume  of  his  contem- 
poraries. He  did  not  reflect  that  the  drab  tints 
were  becoming  to  him,  for  he  rarely  went  to  the 
expense  of  such  thinking;  but  his  own  depth 
of  colouring,  which  made  the  becomingness, 
got  an  added  radiance  in  the  eyes,  a  fleeting 
and  returning  glow  in  the  skin,'  as  he  entered 
the  house,  wondering  what  exactly  he  should 
find.  He  made  his  entrance  as  noiseless  as 
possible. 

It  was  the  evening  of  that  same  afternoon  on 
which  Mirah  had  had  the  interview  with  her 
father.   Mordecai,  penetrated  by  her  grief,  and 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  291 


also  by  the  sad  memories  which  the  incident  had 
awakened,  had  not  resumed  his  task  of  sifting 
papers:  some  of  them  had  fallen  scattered  on 
the  floor  in  the  first  moments  of  anxiety,  and 
neither  he  nor  Mirah  had  thought  of  laying 
them  in  order  again.  They  had  sat  perfectly 
still  together,  not  knowing  how  long;  while  the 
clock  ticked  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  the  light 
was  fading.  Mirah,  unable  to  think  of  the  food 
that  she  ought  to  have  been  taking,  had  not 
moved  since  she  had  thrown  off  her  dust-cloak 
and  sat  down  beside  Mordecai  with  her  hand 
in  his,  while  he  had  laid  his  head  backward, 
with  closed  eyes  and  difficult  breathing,  look- 
ing, Mirah  thought,  as  he  would  look  when  the 
soul  within  him  could  no  longer  live  in  its  strait- 
ened home.  The  thought  that  his  death  might 
be  near  was  continually  visiting  her  when  she 
saw  his  face  in  this  way,  without  its  vivid  ani- 
mation; and  now,  to  the  rest  of  her  grief  was 
added  the  regret  that  she  had  been  unable  to 
control  the  violent  outburst  which  had  shaken 
him.  She  sat  watching  him,  —  her  oval  cheeks 
pallid,  her  eyes  with  the  sorrowful  brillianc}' 
left  by  young  tears,  her  curls  in  as  much  dis- 
order as  a  just-wakened  child's,  —  watching  that 
emaciated  face,  where  it  might  have  been  im- 
agined that  a  veil  had  been  drawn  never  to  be 
lifted,  as  if  it  were  her  dead  joy  which  had  left 
her  strong  enough  to  live  on  in  sorrow.  And 
life  at  that  moment  stretched  before  Mirah  with 
more  than  a  repetition  of  former  sadness.  The 
shadow  of  the  father  was  there,  and  more  than 
that,  a  double  bereavement,  —  of  one  living  as 
well  as  one  dead. 


292  DANIEL  DERONDA 


But  now  the  door  was  opened,  and  while  none 
entered,  a  well-known  voice  said:  "  Daniel  De- 
ronda,  —  may  he  come  in?  " 

"  Come!  come!  "  said  Mordecai,  immediately 
rising  with  an  irradiated  face  and  opened  eyes, 
—  apparently  as  little  surprised  as  if  he  had 
seen  Deronda  in  the  morning,  and  expected  this 
evening  visit;  while  Mirah  started  up,  blushing 
with  confused,  half-alarmed  expectation. 

Yet  when  Deronda  entered,  the  sight  of  him 
was  like  the  clearness  after  rain:  no  clouds  to 
come  could  hinder  the  cherishing  beam  of  that 
moment.  As  he  held  out  his  right  hand  to 
Mirah,  who  was  close  to  her  brother's  left,  he 
laid  his  other  hand  on  Mordecai's  right  shoul- 
der, and  stood  so  a  moment,  holding  them  both 
at  once,  uttering  no  word,  but  reading  their 
faces,  till  he  said  anxiously  to  Mirah,  "  Has 
anything  happened?  —  any  trouble?" 

"  Talk  not  of  trouble  now,"  said  Mordecai, 
saving  her  from  the  need  to  answer.  "  There 
is  joy  in  your  face,  —  let  the  joy  be  ours." 

Mirah  thought,  "It  is  for  something  he  can- 
not tell  us."  But  they  all  sat  down,  Deronda 
drawing  a  chair  close  in  front  of  Mordecai. 

"  That  is  true,"  he  said  emphatically.  "  I  have 
a  joy  which  will  remain  to  us  even  in  the  worst 
trouble.  I  did  not  tell  you  the  reason  of  my 
journey  abroad,  Mordecai,  because  —  never 
mind  —  I  went  to  learn  my  parentage.  And 
you  were  right.    I  am  a  Jew." 

The  two  men  clasped  hands  with  a  movement 
that  seemed  part  of  the  flash  from  Mordecai's 
eyes,  and  passed  through  Mirah  like  an  electric 
shock.    But  Deronda  went  on  without  pause. 


FRUIT  AND   SEED  293 


speaking  from  Mordecai's  mind  as  much  as  from 
his  own,  — 

"  We  have  the  same  people.  Our  souls  have 
the  same  vocation.  We  shall  not  be  separated 
by  life  or  by  death." 

Mordecai's  answer  was  uttered  in  Hebrew, 
and  in  no  more  than  a  loud  whisper.  It  was 
in  the  liturgical  words  which  express  the  re- 
ligious bond:  "Our  God,  and  the  God  of  our 
fathers." 

The  weight  of  feeling  pressed  too  strongly  on 
that  ready-winged  speech  which  usually  moved 
in  quick  adaptation  to  every  stirring  of  his 
fervour. 

Mirah  fell  on  her  knees  by  her  brother's  side, 
and  looked  at  his  now  illuminated  face,  which 
had  just  before  been  so  deathly.  The  action  was 
an  inevitable  outlet  of  the  violent  reversal  from 
despondency  to  a  gladness  which  came  over  her 
as  solemnly  as  if  she  had  been  beholding  a  reli- 
gious rite.  For  the  moment  she  thought  of  the 
effect  on  her  own  life  only  through  the  effect 
on  her  brother. 

"  And  it  is  not  only  that  I  am  a  Jew,"  De- 
ronda  went  on,  enjoying  one  of  those  rare  mo- 
ments when  our  yearnings  and  our  acts  can  be 
completely  one,  and  the  real  we  behold  is  our 
ideal  good;  "but  I  come  of  a  strain  that  has 
ardently  maintained  the  fellowship  of  our  race, 
—  a  line  of  Spanish  Jews  that  has  borne  many 
students  and  men  of  practical  power.  And  I 
possess  what  will  give  us  a  sort  of  communion 
with  them.  My  grandfather,  Daniel  Charisi, 
preserved  manuscripts,  family  records  stretch- 
ing far  back,  in  the  hope  that  they  would  pass 


294  DANIEL  DEROISTDA 


into  the  hands  of  his  grandson.  And  now  his 
hope  is  fulfilled,  in  spite  of  attempts  to  thwart 
it  by  hiding  my  parentage  from  me.  I  possess 
the  chest  containing  them  with  his  own  papers, 
and  it  is  down  below  in  this  house.  I  mean  to 
leave  it  with  you,  Mordecai,  that  you  may  help 
me  to  study  the  manuscripts.  Some  of  them  I 
can  read  easily  enough,  —  those  in  Spanish  and 
Italian.  Others  are  in  Hebrew,  and,  I  think, 
Arabic;  but  there  seem  to  be  Latin  transla- 
tions. I  was  only  able  to  look  at  them  cursorily 
while  I  stayed  at  Mainz.  We  will  study  them 
together." 

Deronda  ended  with  that  bright  smile  which, 
beaming  out  from  the  habitual  gravity  of  his 
face,  seemed  a  revelation  (the  reverse  of  the 
continual  smile  that  discredits  all  expression) . 
But  when  this  happy  glance  passed  from  Mor- 
decai to  rest  on  Mirah,  it  acted  like  a  little  too 
much  sunshine,  and  made  her  change  her  atti- 
tude. She  had  knelt  under  an  impulse  with 
which  any  personal  embarrassment  was  incon- 
gruous, and  especially  any  thoughts  about  how 
Mrs.  Grandcourt  might  stand  to  this  new  aspect 
of  things,  —  thoughts  which  made  her  colour 
under  Deronda's  glance,  and  rise  to  take  her  seat 
again  in  her  usual  posture  of  crossed  hands  and 
feet,  with  the  effort  to  look  as  quiet  as  possible. 
Deronda,  equally  sensitive,  imagined  that  the 
feeling  of  which  he  was  conscious,  had  entered 
too  much  into  his  eyes,  and  had  been  repugnant 
to  her.  He  was  ready  enough  to  believe  that 
any  unexpected  manifestation  might  spoil  her 
feeling  towards  him,  —  and  then  his  precious 
relation  to  brother  and  sister  would  be  marred. 


FRUIT  AND   SEED  295 


If  Mirah  could  have  no  love  for  him,  any  ad- 
vances of  love  on  his  part  would  make  her 
wretched  in  that  continual  contact  with  him 
which  would  remain  inevitable. 

While  such  feelings  were  pulsating  quickly 
in  Deronda  and  Mirah,  Mordecai,  seeing  noth- 
ing in  his  friend's  presence  and  words  but  a 
blessed  fulfilment,  was  already  speaking  with 
his  old  sense  of  enlargement  in  utterance,  — 

"  Daniel,  from  the  first,  I  have  said  to  you, 
we  know  not  all  the  pathways.  Has  there  not 
been  a  meeting  among  them,  as  of  the  operations 
in  one  soul,  where  an  idea  being  born  and  breath- 
ing draws  the  elements  towards  it,  and  is  fed 
and  grows?  For  all  things  are  bound  together 
in  that  Omnipresence  which  is  the  place  and 
habitation  of  the  world,  and  events  are  as  a  glass 
wherethrough  our  eyes  see  some  of  the  path- 
ways. And  if  it  seems  that  the  erring  and  un- 
loving wills  of  men  have  helped  to  prepare  you, 
as  Moses  was  prepared,  to  serve  your  people 
the  better,  that  depends  on  another  order  than 
the  law  which  must  guide  our  footsteps.  For 
the  evil  will  of  man  makes  not  a  people's  good 
except  by  stirring  the  righteous  will  of  man;  • 
and  beneath  all  the  clouds  with  which  our 
thought  encompasses  the  Eternal,  this  is  clear, 
—  that  a  people  can  be  blessed  only  by  having 
counsellors  and  a  multitude  whose  will  moves  in 
obedience  to  the  laws  of  justice  and  love.  For 
see,  now,  it  was  your  loving  will  that  made  a 
chief  pathway,  and  resisted  the  effect  of  evil; 
for,  by  performing  the  duties  of  brotherhood  to 
my  sister,  and  seeking  out  her  brother  in  the 
flesh,  your  soul  has  been  prepared  to  receive 


296  DANIEL  DERONDA 


with  gladness  this  message  of  the  Eternal:  '  Be- 
hold the  multitude  of  your  brethren.'  " 

"It  is  quite  true  that  you  and  Mirah  have 
been  my  teachers,"  said  Deronda.  "  If  this 
revelation  had  been  made  to  me  before  I  knew 
you  both,  I  think  my  mind  would  have  rebelled 
against  it.  Perhaps  I  should  have  felt  then, 
'  If  I  could  have  chosen,  I  would  not  have  been 
a  Jew.'  What  I  feel  now  is,  —  that  my  whole 
being  is  a  consent  to  the  fact.  But  it  has  been 
the  gradual  accord  between  your  mind  and  mine 
which  has  brought  about  that  full  consent." 

At  the  moment  Deronda  was  speaking,  that 
first  evening  in  the  book-shop  was  vividly  in  his 
remembrance,  with  all  the  struggling  aloofness 
he  had  then  felt  from  Mordecai's  prophetic  con- 
fidence. It  was  his  nature  to  delight  in  satisfy- 
ing to  the  utmost  the  eagerly  expectant  soul, 
which  seemed  to  be  looking  out  from  the  face 
before  him,  like  the  long-enduring  watcher  who 
at  last  sees  the  mounting  signal-flame;  and  he 
went  on  with  fuller  fervour,  — 

"It  is  through  your  inspiration  that  I  have 
discerned  what  may  be  my  life's  task.  It  is  you 
who  have  given  shape  to  what,  I  believe,  was 
an  inherited  yearning,  —  the  effect  of  brood- 
ing, passionate  thoughts  in  many  ancestors,  — 
thoughts  that  seem  to  have  been  intensely  pres- 
ent in  my  grandfather.  Suppose  the  stolen  off- 
spring of  some  mountain  tribe  brought  up  in  a 
city  of  the  plain,  or  one  with  an  inherited  genius 
for  painting,  and  born  blind,  —  the  ancestral 
life  would  lie  within  them  as  a  dim  longing  for 
unknown  objects  and  sensations,  and  the  spell- 
bound habit  of  their  inherited  frames  would  be 


/ 


FRUIT  AND   SEED  297 


like  a  cunningly  wrought  musical  instrument, 
never  played  on,  but  quivering  throughout  in 
uneasy  mysterious  moanings  of  its  intricate 
structure  that,  under  the  right  touch,  gives 
music.  Something  like  that,  I  think,  has  been 
my  experience.  Since  I  began  to  read  and  know, 
I  have  always  longed  for  some  ideal  task,  in 
which  I  might  feel  myself  the  heart  and  brain 
of  a  multitude,  —  some  social  captainship,  which 
would  come  to  me  as  a  duty,  and  not  be  striven 
for  as  a  personal  prize.  You  have  raised  the 
image  of  such  a  task  for  me,  ^ —  to  bind  our  race 
together  in  spite  of  heresy.  You  have  said  to 
me,  '  Our  religion  united  us  before  it  divided  us, 
—  it  made  us  a  people  before  it  made  Rabban- 
ites  and  Karaites.'  I  mean  to  try  what  can  be 
done  with  that  union,  —  I  mean  to  work  in  your 
spirit.  Failure  will  not  be  ignoble,  but  it  would 
be  ignoble  for  me  not  to  try." 

"  Even  as  my  brother  that  fed  at  the  breasts 
of  my  mother,"  said  Mordecai,  falling  back  in 
his  chair  with  a  look  of  exultant  repose,  as  after 
some  finished  labour. 

To  estimate  the  effect  of  this  ardent  outpour- 
ing from  Deronda  we  must  remember  his  former 
reserve,  his  careful  avoidance  of  premature  as- 
sent or  delusive  encouragement,  which  gave  to 
this  decided  pledge  of  himself  a  sacramental 
solemnity,  both  for  his  own  mind  and  Morde- 
cai's.  On  Mirah  the  effect  was  equally  strong, 
though  with  a  difference:  she  felt  a  surprise 
which  had  no  place  in  her  brother's  mind,  at 
Deronda's  suddenly  revealed  sense  of  nearness 
to  them:  there  seemed  to  be  a  breaking  of  day 
around  her  which  might  show  her  other  facts 


298  DANIEL  DEKONDA 


unlike  her  forebodings  in  the  darkness.  But  after 
a  moment's  silence  Mordecai  spoke  again ;  — 

"  It  has  begun  already,  —  the  marriage  of 
our  souls.  It  waits  but  the  passing  away  of  this 
body,  and  then  they  who  are  betrothed  shall 
unite  in  a  stricter  bond,  and  what  is  mine  shall 
be  thine.  Call  nothing  mine  that  I  have  writ- 
ten, Daniel;  for  though  our  Masters  delivered 
rightly  that  everything  should  be  quoted  in  the 
name  of  him  that  said  it,  —  and  their  rule  is 
good,  —  yet  it  does  not  exclude  the  willing  mar- 
riage which  melts  soul  into  soul,  and  makes 
thought  fuller  as  the  clear  waters  are  made 
fuller,  where  the  fulness  is  inseparable  and  the 
clearness  is  inseparable.  For  I  have  judged 
what  I  have  written,  and  I  desire  the  body  that 
I  gave  my  thought  to  pass  away  as  this  fleshly 
body  will  pass;  but  let  the  thought  be  born 
again  from  our  fuller  soul  which  shall  be  called 
yours." 

"  You  must  not  ask  me  to  promise  that,"  said 
Deronda,  smiling.  "  I  must  be  convinced  first 
of  special  reasons  for  it  in  the  writings  them- 
selves. And  I  am  too  backward  a  pupil  yet. 
That  blent  transmission  must  go  on  without  any 
choice  of  ours;  but  what  we  can't  hinder  must 
not  make  our  rule  for  what  we  ought  to  choose. 
I  think  our  duty  is  faithful  tradition  where  we 
can  attain  it.  And  so  you  would  insist  for  any 
one  but  yourself.  Don't  ask  me  to  deny  my  spir- 
itual parentage,  when  I  am  finding  the  clew 
of  my  life  in  the  recognition  of  my  natural 
parentage." 

"  I  will  ask  for  no  promise  till  you  see  the  rea- 
son," said  Mordecai.   "  You  have  said  the  truth: 


FRUIT  AND   SEED  299 


I  would  obey  the  Masters'  rule  for  another. 
But  for  years  my  hope,  nay,  my  confidence,  has 
been,  not  that  the  imperfect  image  of  my 
thought,  which  is  as  the  ill-shapen  work  of  the 
youthful  carver  who  has  seen  a  heavenly  pat- 
tern, and  trembles  in  imitating  the  vision,  —  not 
that  this  should  live,  but  that  my  vision  and  pas- 
sion should  enter  into  yours,  —  yea,  into  yours ; 
for  he  whom  I  longed  for  afar,  was  he  not  you 
whom  I  discerned  as  mine  when  you  came  near? 
Nevertheless,  you  shall  judge.  For  my  soul  is 
satisfied."  Mordecai  paused,  and  then  began  in 
a  changed  tone,  reverting  to  previous  sugges- 
tions from  Deronda's  disclosure:  "  What  moved 
your  parents  —  "  But  he  immediately  checked 
himself,  and  added,  "  Nay,  I  ask  not  that  you 
should  tell  me  aught  concerning  others,  unless 
it  is  your  pleasure." 

"  Sometime — gradually — you  will  know  all," 
said  Deronda.  "  But  now  tell  me  more  about 
yourselves,  and  how  the  time  has  passed  since 
I  went  away.  I  am  sure  there  has  been  some 
trouble.  Mirah  has  been  in  distress  about 
something." 

He  looked  at  Mirah,  but  she  immediately 
turned  to  her  brother,  appealing  to  him  to  give 
the  difficult  answer.  She  hoped  he  would  not 
think  it  necessary  to  tell  Deronda  the  facts  about 
her  father  on  such  an  evening  as  this.  Just  when 
Deronda  had  brought  himself  so  near,  and  iden- 
tified himself  with  her  brother,  it  was  cutting 
to  her  that  he  should  hear  of  this  disgrace  cling- 
ing about  them,  which  seemed  to  have  become 
partly  his.  To  relieve  herself  she  rose  to  take 
up  her  hat  and  cloak,  thinking  she  would  go  to 


300  DANIEL  DERONDA 


her  own  room:  perhaps  they  would  speak  more 
easily  when  she  had  left  them.  But  meanwhile 
Mordecai  said,  — 

"  To-day  there  has  been  a  grief.  A  duty 
which  seemed  to  have  gone  far  into  the  distance 
has  come  back  and  turned  its  face  upon  us,  and 
raised  no  gladness,  —  has  raised  a  dread  that 
we  must  submit  to.  But  for  the  moment  we  are 
delivered  from  any  visible  yoke.  Let  us  defer 
speaking  of  it,  as  if  this  evening  which  is  deep- 
ening about  us  were  the  beginning  of  the  fes- 
tival in  which  we  must  offer  the  first-fruits  of 
our  joy,  and  mingle  no  mourning  with  them." 

Deronda  divined  the  hinted  grief,  and  left  it 
in  silence,  rising  as  he  saw  Mirah  rise,  and  say- 
ing to  her,  "  Are  you  going?  I  must  leave 
almost  immediately,  —  when  I  and  Mrs.  Adam 
have  mounted  the  precious  chest,  and  I  have 
delivered  the  key  to  Mordecai,  —  no,  Ezra,  — 
may  I  call  him  Ezra  now?  I  have  learned  to 
think  of  him  as  Ezra  since  I  have  heard  you  call 
him  so." 

"  Please  call  him  Ezra,"  said  Mirah,  faintly, 
feeling  a  new  timidity  under  Deronda's  glance 
and  near  presence.  Was  there  really  something 
different  about  him,  or  was  the  difference  only 
in  her  feeling?  The  strangely  various  emotions 
of  the  last  few  hours  had  exhausted  her :  she  was 
faint  with  fatigue  and  want  of  food.  Deronda, 
observing  her  pallor  and  tremulousness,  longed 
to  show  more  feeling,  but  dared  not.  She  put 
out  her  hand  with  an  effort  to  smile,  and  then 
he  opened  the  door  for  her.    That  was  all. 

A  man  of  refined  pride  shrinks  from  making 
a  lover's  approaches  to  a  woman  whose  wealth 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  301 


or  rank  might  make  them  appear  presumptu- 
ous or  low-motived;  but  Deronda  was  finding 
a  more  dehcate  difficulty  in  a  position  which, 
superficially  taken,  was  the  reverse  of  that, 
though  to  an  ardent  reverential  love  the  loved 
woman  has  always  a  kind  of  wealth  and  rank 
which  makes  a  man  keenly  susceptible  about 
the  aspect  of  his  addresses.  Deronda's  difficulty 
was  what  any  generous  man  might  have  felt 
in  some  degree;  but  it  affected  him  peculiarly 
through  his  imaginative  sympathy  with  a  mind 
in  which  gratitude  was  strong.  Mirah,  he  knew, 
felt  herself  bound  to  him  by  deep  obligations, 
which  to  her  sensibilities  might  give  every  wish 
of  his  the  aspect  of  a  claim;  and  an  inability  to 
fulfil  it  would  cause  her  a  pain  continually  re- 
vived by  their  inevitable  communion  in  care  for 
Ezra.  Here  were  fears  not  of  pride  only,  but 
of  extreme  tenderness.  Altogether,  to  have  the 
character  of  a  benefactor  seemed  to  Deronda's 
anxiety  an  insurmountable  obstacle  to  confess- 
ing himself  a  lover,  unless  in  some  inconceiv- 
able way  it  could  be  revealed  to  him  that  Mirah's 
heart  had  accepted  him  beforehand.  And  the 
agitation  on  his  own  account,  too,  was  not  small. 

Even  a  man  who  has  practised  himself  in  love- 
making  till  his  own  glibness  has  rendered  him 
sceptical,  may  at  last  be  overtaken  by  the  lover's 
awe,  —  may  tremble,  stammer,  and  show  other 
signs  of  recovered  sensibility  no  more  in  the 
range  of  his  acquired  talents  than  pins  and 
needles  after  numbness:  how  much  more  may 
that  energetic  timidity  possess  a  man  whose  in- 
ward history  has  cherished  his  susceptibilities 
instead  of  dulKng  them,  and  has  kept  all  the 


302         DANIEL  DERONDA 


language  of  passion  fresh  and  rooted  as  the 
lovely  leafage  about  the  hillside  spring! 

As  for  Mirah  her  dear  head  lay  on  its  pillow 
that  night  with  its  former  suspicions  thrown  out 
of  shape  but  still  present,  like  an  ugly  story 
which  has  been  discredited  but  not  therefore 
dissipated.  All  that  she  was  certain  of  about 
Deronda  seemed  to  prove  that  he  had  no  such 
fetters  upon  him  as  she  had  been  allowing  herself 
to  believe  in.  His  whole  manner  as  well  as  his 
words  implied  that  there  were  no  hidden  bonds 
remaining  to  have  any  effect  in  determining  his 
future.  But  notwithstanding  this  plainly  rea- 
sonable inference,  uneasiness  still  clung  about 
Mirah's  heart.  Deronda  was  not  to  blame,  but 
he  had  an  importance  for  Mrs.  Grandcourt  which 
must  give  her  some  hold  on  him.  And  the 
thought  of  any  close  confidence  between  them 
stirred  the  little  biting  snake  that  had  long  lain 
curled  and  harmless  in  Mirah's  gentle  bosom. 

But  did  she  this  evening  feel  as  completely  as 
before  that  her  jealousy  was  no  less  remote  from 
any  possibility  for  herself  personally  than  if  her 
human  soul  had  been  lodged  in  the  body  of  a 
fawn  that  Deronda  had  saved  from  the  archers? 
Hardly.  Something  indefinable  had  happened 
and  made  a  difference.  The  soft  warm  rain  of 
blossoms  which  had  fallen  just  where  she  was, 
—  did  it  really  come  because  she  was  there  ? 
What  spirit  was  there  among  the  boughs? 


CHAPTER  VII 


Questa  montagna  e  tale, 
Che  sempre  al  comineiar  di  sotto  e  grave, 
E  quanto  uom  piu  va  su  e  men  fa  male. 

Dante:  II  Purgatorio. 

IT  was  not  many  days  after  her  mother's 
arrival  that  Gwendolen  would  consent  to 
remain  at  Genoa.  Her  desire  to  get  away 
from  that  gem  of  the  sea  helped  to  rally  her 
strength  and  courage.  For  what  place,  though 
it  were  the  flowery  vale  of  Enna,  may  not  the 
inward  sense  turn  into  a  circle  of  punishment 
where  the  flowers  are  no  better  than  a  crop  of 
flame-tongues  burning  the  soles  of  our  feet? 

"  I  shall  never  like  to  see  the  Mediterranean 
again,"  said  Gwendolen  to  her  mother,  who 
thought  that  she  quite  understood  her  child's 
feeling,  —  even  in  her  tacit  prohibition  of  any 
express  reference  to  her  late  husband. 

Mrs.  Davilow,  indeed,  though  compelled  for- 
mally to  regard  this  time  as  one  of  severe  calam- 
ity, was  virtually  enjoying  her  life  more  than 
she  had  ever  done  since  her  daughter's  marriage. 
It  seemed  that  her  darling  was  brought  back 
to  her  not  merely  with  all  the  old  affection,  but 
with  a  conscious  cherishing  of  her  mother's  near- 
ness, such  as  we  give  to  a  possession  that  we 
have  been  on  the  brink  of  losing. 

"  Are  you  there,  mamma?  "  cried  Gwendolen, 
in  the  middle  of  the  night  (a  bed  had  been  made 
for  her  mother  in  the  same  room  with  hers), 


304  DANIEL  DERONDA 


very  much  as  she  would  have  done  in  her  early 
girlhood,  if  she  had  felt  frightened  in  lying 
awake. 

"  Yes,  dear;  can  I  do  anything  for  you?  " 

"  No,  thank  you;  only  I  like  so  to  know  you 
are  there.  Do  you  mind  my  waking  you?  " 
(This  question  would  hardly  have  been  Gwen- 
dolen's in  her  early  girlhood.) 

"  I  was  not  asleep,  darling." 

"  It  seemed  not  real  that  you  were  with  me. 
I  wanted  to  make  it  real.  I  can  bear  things  if 
you  are  with  me.  But  you  must  not  lie  awake 
being  anxious  about  me.  You  must  be  happy 
now.  You  mtist  let  me  make  you  happy  now 
at  last,  —  else  what  shall  I  do?  " 

"  God  bless  you,  dear;  I  have  the  best  hap- 
piness I  can  have,  when  you  make  much  of 
me." 

But  the  next  night,  hearing  that  she  was  sigh- 
ing and  restless,  Mrs.  Davilow  said,  "  Let  me 
give  you  your  sleeping  draught,  Gwendolen." 

"No,  mamma,  thank  you;  I  don't  want  to 
sleep." 

"  It  would  be  so  good  for  you  to  sleep  more, 
my  darling." 

"  Don't  say  what  would  be  good  for  me, 
mamma,"  Gwendolen  answered  impetuously. 
"  You  don't  know  what  would  be  good  for  me. 
You  and  my  uncle  must  not  contradict  me  and 
tell  me  anything  is  good  for  me  when  I  feel  it 
is  not  good." 

Mrs.  Davilow  was  silent,  not  wondering  that 
the  poor  child  was  irritable.  Presently  Gwen- 
dolen said,  — 

"  I  was  always  naughty  to  you,  mamma." 


FRUIT  AND   SEED  305 


"  No,  dear,  no." 

"  Yes,  I  was,"  said  Gwendolen,  insistently. 
"  It  is  because  I  was  always  wicked  that  I  am 
miserable  now." 

She  burst  into  sobs  and  cries.  The  determi- 
nation to  be  silent  about  all  the  facts  of  her 
married  life  and  its  close,  reacted  in  these  es- 
capes of  enigmatic  excitement. 

But  dim  lights  of  interpretation  were  break- 
ing on  the  mother's  mind  through  the  informa- 
tion that  came  from  Sir  Hugo  to  Mr.  Gascoigne, 
and,  with  some  omissions,  from  Mr.  Gascoigne 
to  herself.  The  good-natured  baronet,  while  he 
was  attending  to  all  decent  measures  in  rela- 
tion to  his  nephew's  death  and  the  possible  wash- 
ing ashore  of  the  body,  thought  it  the  kindest 
thing  he  could  do  to  use  his  present  friendly 
intercourse  with  the  Rector  as  an  opportunity 
for  communicating  to  him,  in  the  mildest  way, 
the  purport  of  Grandcourt's  will,  so  as  to  save 
him  the  additional  shock  that  would  be  in  store 
for  him  if  he  carried  his  illusions  all  the  way 
home.  Perhaps  Sir  Hugo  would  have  been 
communicable  enough  without  that  kind  motive, 
but  he  really  felt  the  motive.  He  broke  the 
unpleasant  news  to  the  Rector  by  degrees:  at 
.  first  he  only  implied  his  fear  that  the  widow  was 
not  so  splendidly  provided  for  as  Mr.  Gascoigne, 
nay,  as  the  baronet  himself,  had  expected;  and 
only  at  last,  after  some  previous  vague  refer- 
ence to  large  claims  on  Grandcourt,  he  disclosed 
the  prior  relations  which,  in  the  unfortunate  ab- 
sence of  a  legitimate  heir,  had  determined  all 
the  splendour  in  another  direction. 

The  R  ector  was  deeply  hurt,  and  remembered, 

VOL.  XIV  —  2") 


306  DAmEL  DERONDA 


more  vividly  than  he  had  ever  done  before,  how 
offensively  proud  and  repelling  the  manners  of 
the  deceased  had  been  towards  him,  —  remem- 
bered also  that  he  himself,  in  that  interesting 
period  just  before  the  arrival  of  the  new  occu- 
pant at  Diplow,  had  received  hints  of  former 
entangling  dissipations,  and  an  undue  addiction 
to  pleasure,  though  he  had  not  foreseen  that  the 
pleasure  which  had  probably,  so  to  speak,  been 
swept  into  private  rubbish-heaps,  would  ever 
present  itself  as  an  array  of  live  caterpillars, 
disastrous  to  the  green  meat  of  respectable 
people.  But  he  did  not  make  these  retrospec- 
tive thoughts  audible  to  Sir  Hugo,  or  lower 
himself  by  expressing  any  indignation  on  merely 
personal  grounds,  but  behaved  like  a  man  of 
the  world  who  had  become  a  conscientious 
clergyman.    His  first  remark  was,  — 

"  When  a  young  man  makes  his  will  in  health, 
he  usually  counts  on  living  a  long  while.  Prob- 
ably Mr.  Grandcourt  did  not  believe  that  this 
will  would  ever  have  its  present  effect."  After 
a  moment  he  added:  "  The  effect  is  painful  in 
more  ways  than  one.  Female  morality  is  likely 
to  suffer  from  this  marked  advantage  and  promi- 
nence being  given  to  illegitimate  offspring." 

"  Well,  in  point  of  fact,"  said  Sir  Hugo,  in 
his  comfortable  way,  "  since  the  boy  is  there,  this 
was  really  the  best  alternative  for  the  disposal 
of  the  estates.  Grandcourt  had  nobody  nearer 
than  his  cousin.  And  it 's  a  chilling  thought 
that  you  go  out  of  this  life  only  for  the  benefit 
of  a  cousin.  A  man  gets  a  little  pleasure  in 
making  his  will,  if  it 's  for  the  good  of  his  own 
curly  heads ;  but  it 's  a  nuisance  when  you  're 


FRUIT  AND   SEED  307 


giving  and  bequeathing  to  a  used-up  fellow  like 
yourself,  and  one  you  don't  care  two  straws  for. 
It 's  the  next  worse  thing  to  having  only  a  life 
interest  in  your  estates.  No;  I  forgive  Grand- 
court  for  that  part  of  his  will.  But,  between 
ourselves,  what  I  don't  forgive  him  for  is  the 
shabby  way  he  has  provided  for  your  niece,  — 
our  niece,  I  will  say,  —  no  better  a  position  than 
if  she  had  been  a  doctor's  widow.  Nothing 
grates  on  me  more  than  that  posthumous  grudg- 
ingness  towards  a  wife.  A  man  ought  to 
have  some  pride  and  fondness  for  his  widow. 
/  should,  I  know.  I  take  it  as  a  test  of  a  man, 
that  he  feels  the  easier  about  his  death  when  he 
can  think  of  his  wife  and  daughters  being  com- 
fortable after  it.  I  like  that  story  of  the  fel- 
lows in  the  Crimean  war,  who  were  ready  to 
go  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  if  their  widows  were 
provided  for." 

"  It  has  certainly  taken  me  by  surprise,"  said 
Mr.  Gascoigne,  "  all  the  more  because,  as  the 
one  who  stood  in  the  place  of  father  to  my  niece, 
I  had  shown  my  reliance  on  Mr.  Grandcourt's 
apparent  liberality  in  money  matters  by  mak- 
ing no  claims  for  her  beforehand.  That  seemed 
to  me  due  to  him  under  the  circumstances. 
Probably  you  think  me  blamable." 

"  Not  blamable  exactly.  I  respect  a  man  for 
trusting  another.  But  take  my  advice.  If  you 
marry  another  niece,  though  it  may  be  to  the 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  bind  him  down. 
Your  niece  can't  be  married  for  the  first  time 
twice  over.  And  if  he  's  a  good  fellow,  he  'II 
wish  to  be  bound.  But  as  to  Mrs.  Grandcourt, 
I  can  only  say  that  I  feel  my  relation  to  her 


308  DANIEL  DERONDA 


all  the  nearer  because  I  think  that  she  has  not 
been  well  treated.  And  I  hope  you  will  urge 
her  to  rely  on  me  as  a  friend." 

Thus  spake  the  chivalrous  Sir  Hugo,  in  his 
disgust  at  the  young  and  beautiful  widow  of  a 
Mallinger  Grandcourt  being  left  with  only  two 
thousand  a  year  and  a  house  in  a  coal-mining 
district.  To  the  Rector  that  income  naturally 
appeared  less  shabby  and  less  accompanied  with 
mortifying  privations;  but  in  this  conversation 
he  had  devoured  a  much  keener  sense  than  the 
baronet's  of  the  humiliation  cast  over  his  niece, 
and  also  over  her  nearest  friends,  by  the  con- 
spicuous publishing  of  her  husband's  relation  to 
Mrs.  Glasher.  And  like  all  men  who  are  good 
husbands  and  fathers,  he  felt  the  humiliation 
through  the  minds  of  the  women  who  would  be 
chiefly  affected  by  it ;  so  that  the  annoyance  of 
first  hearing  the  facts  was  far  slighter  than  what 
he  felt  in  communicating  them  to  Mrs.  Davilow, 
and  in  anticipating  Gwendolen's  feeling  when- 
ever her  mother  saw  fit  to  tell  her  of  them.  For 
the  good  Rector  had  an  innocent  conviction  that 
his  niece  was  unaware  of  Mrs.  Glasher's  exist- 
ence, arguing  with  masculine  soundness  from 
what  maidens  and  wives  were  likely  to  know, 
do,  and  suffer,  and  having  had  a  most  imperfect 
observation  of  the  particular  maiden  and  wife 
in  question.  Not  so  Gwendolen's  mother,  who 
now  thought  that  she  saw  an  explanation  of 
much  that  had  been  enigmatic  in  her  child's  con- 
duct and  words  before  and  after  her  engage- 
ment, concluding  that  in  some  inconceivable 
way  Gwendolen  had  been  informed  of  this  left- 
handed  marriage  and  the  existence  of  the  chil- 


FRUIT  AND   SEED  309 


dren.  She  trusted  to  opportunities  that  would 
arise  in  moments  of  affectionate  confidence  be- 
,  fore  and  during  their  journey  to  England,  when 
she  might  gradually  learn  how  far  the  actual 
state  of  things  was  clear  to  Gwendolen,  and 
prepare  her  for  anything  that  might  be  a  dis- 
appointment. But  she  was  spared  from  devices 
on  the  subject. 

"  I  hope  you  don't  expect  that  I  am  going  to 
be  rich  and  grand,  mamma,"  said  Gwendolen, 
not  long  after  the  Rector's  communication; 
"  perhaps  I  shall  have  nothing  at  all." 

She  was  dressed,  and  had  been  sitting  long  in 
quiet  meditation.  Mrs.  Davilow  was  startled, 
but  said,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  — 

"  Oh,  yes,  dear,  you  will  have  something. 
Sir  Hugo  knows  all  about  the  will." 

"  That  will  not  decide,"  said  Gwendolen, 
abruptly. 

"  Surely,  dear:  Sir  Hugo  says  you  are  to 
have  two  thousand  a  year  and  the  house  at 
Gadsmere." 

"  What  I  have  will  depend  on  what  I  accept," 
said  Gwendolen.  "  You  and  my  uncle  must  not 
attempt  to  cross  me  and  persuade  me  about  this. 
I  will  do  everything  I  can  do  to  make  you 
happy,  but  in  anything  about  my  husband  I 
must  not  be  interfered  with.  Is  eight  hundred 
a  year  enough  for  you,  mamma?  " 

"  More  than  enough,  dear.  You  must  not 
think  of  giving  me  so  much."  Mrs.  Davilow 
paused  a  little,  and  then  said,  "  Do  you  know 
who  is  to  have  the  estates  and  the  rest  of  the 
money?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Gwendolen,  waving  her  hand  in 


310         DANIEL  DERONDA 


dismissal  of  the  subject.  "  I  know  everything. 
It  is  all  perfectly  right,  and  I  wish  never  to 
have  it  mentioned." 

The  mother  was  silent,  looked  away,  and  rose 
to  fetch  a  fan-screen,  with  a  slight  flush  on  her 
delicate  cheeks.  Wondering,  imagining,  she  did 
not  like  to  meet  her  daughter's  eyes,  and  sat 
down  again  under  a  sad  constraint.  What 
wretchedness  her  child  had  perhaps  gone 
through,  which  yet  must  remain,  as  it  always 
had  been,  locked  away  from  their  mutual 
speech!  But  Gwendolen  was  watching  her 
mother  with  that  new  divination  which  experi- 
ence had  given  her;  and  in  tender  relenting 
at  her  own  peremptoriness,  she  said,  "  Come 
and  sit  nearer  to  me,  mamma,  and  don't  be 
unhappy." 

Mrs.  Davilow  did  as  she  was  told,  but  bit 
her  lips  in  the  vain  attempt  to  hinder  smarting 
tears.  Gwendolen  leaned  towards  her  caress- 
ingly and  said:  "  I  mean  to  be  very  wise;  I  do 
really.  And  good,  —  oh,  so  good  to  you,  dear, 
old,  sweet  mamma,  you  won't  know  me.  Only 
you  must  not  cry." 

The  resolve  that  Gwendolen  had  in  her  mind 
was  that  she  would  ask  Deronda  whether  she 
ought  to  accept  any  of  her  husband's  money,  — 
whether  she  might  accept  what  would  enable 
her  to  provide  for  her  mother.  The  poor 
thing  felt  strong  enough  to  do  anything  that 
would  give  her  a  higher  place  in  Deronda's 
mind. 

An  invitation  that  Sir  Hugo  pressed  on  her 
with  kind  urgency  was  that  she  and  Mrs.  Davi- 
low should  go  straight  with  him  to  Park  Lane, 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  311 


and  make  his  house  their  abode  as  long  as 
mourning  and  other  details  needed  attending 
to  in  London.  Town,  he  insisted,  was  just  then 
the  most  retired  of  places;  and  he  proposed  to 
exert  himself  at  once  in  getting  all  articles  be- 
longing to  Gwendolen  away  from  the  house  in 
Grosvenor  Square.  No  proposal  could  have 
suited  her  better  than  this  of  staying  a  little 
while  in  Park  Lane.  It  would  be  easy  for  her 
there  to  have  an  interview  with  Deronda,  if  she 
only  knew  how  to  get  a  letter  into  his  hands, 
asking  ^im  to  come  to  her.  During  the  jour- 
ney Sir  Hugo,  having  understood  that  she  was 
acquainted  with  the  purport  of  her  husband's 
will,  ventured  to  talk  before  her  and  to  her 
about  her  future  arrangements,  referring  here 
and  there  to  mildly  agreeable  prospects  as  mat- 
ters of  course,  and  otherwise  shedding  a  deco- 
rous cheerfulness  over  her  widowed  position.  It 
seemed  to  him  really  the  more  graceful  course 
for  a  widow  to  recover  her  spirits  on  finding 
that  her  husband  had  not  dealt  as  handsomely 
by  her  as  he  might  have  done;  it  was  the  tes- 
tator's fault  if  he  compromised  all  her  grief  at 
his  departure  by  giving  a  testamentary  reason 
for  it,  so  that  she  might  be  supposed  to  look 
sad  not  because  he  had  left  her,  but  because  he 
had  left  her  poor.  The  baronet,  having  his 
kindliness  doubly  fanned  by  the  favourable  wind 
on  his  own  fortunes  and  by  compassion  for 
Gwendolen,  had  become  quite  fatherly  in  his 
behaviour  to  her,  called  her  my  dear,"  and  in 
mentioning  Gadsmere  to  Mr.  Gascoigne  with 
its  various  advantages  and  disadvantages,  spoke 
of  what  "  we  "  might  do  to  make  the  best  of 


312 


DANIEL  DERONDA 


that  property.  Gwendolen  sat  by  in  pale  silence 
while  Sir  Hugo,  with  his  face  turned  towards 
Mrs.  Davilow  or  Mr.  Gascoigne,  conjectured 
that  Mrs.  Grandcourt  might  perhaps  prefer  let- 
ting Gadsmere  to  residing  there  during  any  part 
of  the  year,  in  which  case  he  thought  that  it 
might  be  leased  on  capital  terms  to  one  of  the 
fellows  engaged  with  the  coal:  Sir  Hugo  had 
seen  enough  of  the  place  to  know  that  it  was  as 
comfortable  and  picturesque  a  box  as  any  man 
need  desire,  providing  his  desires  were  circum- 
scribed within  a  coal  area. 

"  I  should  n't  mind  about  the  soot  myself," 
said  the  baronet,  with  that  dispassionateness 
which  belongs  to  the  potential  mood.  "  Noth- 
ing is  more  healthy.  And  if  one's  business  lay 
there,  Gadsmere  would  be  a  Paradise.  It  makes 
quite  a  feature  in  Scrogg's  history  of  the  county, 
with  the  little  tower  and  the  fine  piece  of  water, 
— the  prettiest  print  in  the  book." 

"  A  more  important  place  than  Offendene,  I 
suppose?"  said  Mr.  Gascoigne. 

"  Much,"  said  the  baronet,  decisively.  "  I 
was  there  with  my  poor  brother,  —  it  is  more 
than  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago,  but  I  remember 
it  very  well.  The  rooms  may  not  be  larger,  but 
the  grounds  are  on  a  different  scale." 

"  Our  poor  dear  Offendene  is  empty  after  all," 
said  Mrs.  Davilow.  "  When  it  came  to  the 
point,  Mr.  Haynes  declared  off,  and  there  has 
been  no  one  to  take  it  since.  I  might  as  well 
have  accepted  Lord  Brackenshaw's  kind  offer 
that  I  should  remain  in  it  another  year  rent-free : 
for  I  should  have  kept  the  place  aired  and 
warmed." 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  313 


"  I  hope  you  have  got  something  snug  in- 
stead," said  Sir  Hugo. 

"A  httle  too  snug,"  said  Mr.  Gascoigne,  smil- 
ing at  his  sister-in-law.  "  You  are  rather  thick 
upon  the  ground." 

Gwendolen  had  turned  with  a  changed  glance 
when  her  mother  spoke  of  Offendene  being 
empty.  This  conversation  passed  during  one  of 
the  long  unaccountable  pauses  often  experienced 
in  foreign  trains  at  some  country  station.  There 
was  a  dreamy,  sunny  stillness  over  the  hedgeless 
fields  stretching  to  the  boundary  of  poplars; 
and  to  Gwendolen  the  talk  within  the  carriage 
seemed  only  to  make  the  dreamland  larger  with 
an  indistinct  region  of  coal-pits,  and  a  purga- 
torial Gadsmere  which  she  would  never  visit; 
till,  at  her  mother's  words,  this  mingled,  dozing 
view  seemed  to  dissolve  and  give  way  to  a  more 
wakeful  vision  of  Offendene  and  Pennicote 
under  their  cooler  lights.  She  saw  the  gray 
shoulders  of  the  downs,  the  cattle-specked  fields, 
the  shadowy  plantations  with  rutted  lanes  where 
the  barked  timber  lay  for  a  wayside  seat,  the 
neatly  clipped  hedges  on  the  road  from  the  par- 
sonage to  Offendene,  the  avenue  where  she  was 
gradually  discerned  from  the  windows,  the  hall- 
door  opening,  and  her  mother  or  one  of  the 
troublesome  sisters  coming  out  to  meet  her.  All 
that  brief  experience  of  a  quiet  home  which  had 
once  seemed  a  dulness  to  be  fled  from,  now  came 
back  to  her  as  a  restful  escape,  a  station  where 
she  found  the  breath  of  morning  and  the  unre- 
proaching  voice  of  birds,  after  following  a  lure 
through  a  long  Satanic  masquerade,  which  she 
had  entered  on  with  an  intoxicated  belief  in  its 


314  DANIEL  DERONDA 


disguises,  and  had  seen  the  end  of  in  shrieking 
fear  lest  she  herself  had  become  one  of  the  evil 
spirits  who  were  dropping  their  human  mum- 
mery and  hissing  around  her  with  serpent 
tongues. 

In  this  way  Gwendolen's  mind  paused  over 
Offendene  and  made  it  the  scene  of  many 
thoughts;  but  she  gave  no  further  outward  sign 
of  interest  in  this  conversation,  any  more  than 
in  Sir  Hugo's  opinion  on  the  telegraphic  cable 
or  her  uncle's  views  of  the  Church  Rate  Abolition 
Bill.  What  subjects  will  not  our  talk  embrace 
in  leisurely  day- j  ourneying  from  Genoa  to  Lon- 
don? Even  strangers,  after  glancing  from 
China  to  Peru  and  opening  their  mental  stores 
with  a  liberality  threatening  a  mutual  impres- 
sion of  poverty  on  any  future  meeting,  are  liable 
to  become  excessively  confidential.  But  the  bar- 
onet and  the  Rector  were  under  a  still  stronger 
pressure  towards  cheerful  communication;  they 
were  like  acquaintances  compelled  to  a  long 
drive  in  a  mourning- coach,  who  having  first  re- 
marked that  the  occasion  is  a  melancholy  one, 
naturally  proceed  to  enliven  it  by  the  most  mis- 
cellaneous discourse.  "  I  don't  mind  telling 
you  J'  said  Sir  Hugo  to  the  Rector,  in  mention- 
ing some  private  detail ;  while  the  Rector,  with- 
out saying  so,  did  not  mind  telling  the  baronet 
about  his  sons,  and  the  difficulty  of  placing  them 
in  the  world.  By  dint  of  discussing  all  persons 
and  things  within  driving-reach  of  Diplow,  Sir 
Hugo  got  himself  wrought  to  a  pitch  of  interest 
in  that  former  home,  and  of  conviction  that  it 
was  his  pleasant  duty  to  regain  and  strengthen 
his  personal  influence  in  the  neighbourhood,  that 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  315 


made  him  declare  his  intention  of  taking  his 
family  to  the  place  for  a  month  or  two  before  the 
autumn  was  over;  and  Mr.  Gascoigne  cordially 
rejoiced  in  that  prospect.  Altogether,  the  jour- 
ney was  continued  and  ended  with  mutual  lik- 
ing between  the  male  fellow-travellers. 

Meanwhile  Gwendolen  sat  by  like  one  who 
had  visited  the  spirit- world  and  was  full  to  the 
lips  of  an  unutterable  experience  that  threw  a 
strange  unreality  over  all  the  talk  she  was  hear- 
ing of  her  own  and  the  world's  business;  and 
Mrs.  Davilow  was  chiefly  occupied  in  imagining 
what  her  daughter  was  feeling,  and  in  wonder- 
ing what  was  signified  by  her  hinted  doubt 
whether  she  would  accept  her  husband's  bequest. 
Gwendolen  in  fact  had  before  her  the  unsealed 
wall  of  an  immediate  purpose  shutting  off  every 
other  resolution.  How  to  scale  the  wall?  She 
wanted  again  to  see  and  consult  Deronda,  that 
she  might  secure  herself  against  any  act  he 
would  disapprove.  Would  her  remorse  have 
maintained  its  power  within  her,  or  would  she 
have  felt  absolved  by  secrecy,  if  it  had  not  been 
for  that  outer  conscience  which  was  made  for  her 
by  Deronda?  It  is  hard  to  say  how  much  we 
could  forgive  ourselves  if  we  were  secure  from 
judgment  by  another  whose  opinion  is  the 
breathing-medium  of  all  our  joy,  —  who  brings 
to  us  with  close  pressure  and  immediate  sequence 
that  judgment  of  the  Invisible  and  Universal 
which  self -flattery  and  the  world's  tolerance 
would  easily  melt  and  disperse.  In  this  way  our 
brother  may  be  in  the  stead  of  God  to  us,  and  his 
opinion,  which  has  pierced  even  to  the  joints  and 
marrow,  may  be  our  virtue  in  the  making.  That 


316  DANIEL  DERONDA 


mission  of  Deronda  to  Gwendolen  had  begun 
with  what  she  had  felt  to  be  his  judgment  of  her 
at  the  gaming-table.  He  might  easily  have 
spoiled  it :  much  of  our  lives  is  spent  in  marring 
our  own  influence  and  turning  others'  belief  in 
us  into  a  widely  concluding  unbelief  which  they 
call  knowledge  of  the  world,  while  it  is  really 
disappointment  in  you  or  me.  Deronda  had  not 
spoiled  his  mission. 

But  Gwendolen  had  forgotten  to  ask  him  for 
his  address  in  case  she  wanted  to  write,  and  her 
only  way  of  reaching  him  was  through  Sir 
Hugo.  She  was  not  in  the  least  blind  to  the 
construction  that  all  witnesses  might  put  on  her 
giving  signs  of  dependence  on  Deronda,  and  her 
seeking  him  more  than  he  sought  her:  Grand- 
court's  rebukes  had  sufficiently  enlightened  her 
pride.  But  the  force,  the  tenacity  of  her  nature 
had  thrown  itself  into  that  dependence,  and  she 
would  no  more  let  go  her  hold  on  Deronda's 
help,  or  deny  herself  the  interview  her  soul 
needed,  because  of  witnesses,  than  if  she  had  been 
in  prison  in  danger  of  being  condemned  to  death. 
When  she  was  in  Park  Lane  and  knew  that 
the  baronet  would  be  going  down  to  the  Abbey 
immediately  (just  to  see  his  family  for  a  couple 
of  days  and  then  return  to  transact  needful  busi- 
ness for  Gwendolen) ,  she  said  to  him  without 
any  air  of  hesitation,  while  her  mother  was 
present,  — 

"  Sir  Hugo,  I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Deronda  again 
as  soon  as  possible.  I  don't  know  his  address. 
Will  yiDu  tell  it  me,  or  let  him  know  that  I  want 
to  see  him? " 

A  quick  thought  passed  across  Sir  Hugo's 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  317 


face,  but  made  no  difference  to  the  ease  with 
which  he  said:  "  Upon  my  word,  I  don't  know 
whether  he 's  at  his  chambers  or  the  Abbey  at 
this  moment.  But  I  '11  make  sure  of  him.  I  '11 
send  a  note  now  to  his  chambers  telling  him  to 
come,  and  if  he 's  at  the  Abbey  I  can  give  him 
your  message  and  send  him  up  at  once.  I  am 
sure  he  will  want  to  obey  your  wish,"  the  baronet 
ended,  with  grave  kindness,  as  if  nothing  could 
seem  to  him  more  in  the  appropriate  course  of 
things  than  that  she  should  send  such  a  message. 

But  he  was  convinced  that  Gwendolen  had  a 
passionate  attachment  to  Deronda,  the  seeds  of 
which  had  been  laid  long  ago,  and  his  former 
suspicion  now  recurred  to  him  with  more  strength 
than  ever,  that  her  feeling  was  likely  to  lead  her 
into  imprudences,  —  in  which  kind-hearted  Sir 
Hugo  was  determined  to  screen  and  defend  her 
as  far  as  lay  in  his  power.  To  him  it  was  as  pretty 
a  story  as  need  be  that  this  fine  creature  and  his 
favourite  Dan  should  have  turned  out  to  be 
formed  for  each  other,  and  that  the  unsuitable 
husband  should  have  made  his  exit  in  such  excel- 
lent time.  Sir  Hugo  liked  that  a  charming 
woman  should  be  made  as  happy  as  possible. 
In  truth,  what  most  vexed  his  mind  in  this  matter 
at  present  was  a  doubt  whether  the  too  lofty  and 
inscrutable  Dan  had  not  got  some  scheme  or 
other  in  his  head,  which  would  prove  to  be  dearer 
to  him  than  the  lovely  Mrs.  Grandcourt,  and  put 
that  neatly  prepared  marriage  with  her  out  of 
the  question.  It  was  among  the  usual  paradoxes 
of  feeling  that  Sir  Hugo,  who  had  given  his 
fatherly  cautions  to  Deronda  against  too  much 
tenderness  in  his  relations  with  the  bride,  should 


318  DANIEL  DERONDA 


now  feel  rather  irritated  against  him  by  the  sus- 
picion that  he  had  not  fallen  in  love  as  he  ought 
to  have  done.  Of  course  all  this  thinking  on  Sir 
Hugo's  part  was  eminently  premature,  only  a 
fortnight  or  so  after  Grandcourt's  death.  But 
it  is  the  trick  of  thinking  to  be  either  premature 
or  behindhand. 

However,  he  sent  the  note  to  Deronda's 
chambers,  and  it  found  him  there. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


Oh,  welcome,  pure-eyed  Faith,  white-handed  Hope, 
Thou  hovering  angel,  girt  with  golden  wings ! 

Milton. 


DERONDA  did  not  obey  Gwendolen's 
new  summons  without  some  agitation. 
Not  his  vanity,  but  his  keen  sympathy 
made  him  susceptible  to  the  danger  that  an- 
other's heart  might  feel  larger  demands  on  him 
than  he  would  be  able  to  fulfil;  and  it  was  no 
longer  a  matter  of  argument  with  him,  but  of 
penetrating  consciousness,  that  Gwendolen's 
soul  clung  to  his  with  a  passionate  need.  We  do 
not  argue  the  existence  of  the  anger  or  the  scorn 
that  thrills  through  us  in  a  voice;  we  simply  feel 
it,  and  it  admits  of  no  disproof.  Deronda  felt 
this  woman's  destiny  hanging  on  his  over  a  preci- 
pice of  despair.  Any  one  who  knows  him  cannot 
wonder  at  his  inward  confession,  that  if  all  this 
had  happened  little  more  than  a  year  ago,  he 
would  hardly  have  asked  himself  whether  he 
loved  her:  the  impetuous  determining  impulse 
which  would  have  moved  him  would  have  been 
to  save  her  from  sorrow,  to  shelter  her  life  for- 
evermore  from  the  dangers  of  loneliness,  and 
carry  out  to  the  last  the  rescue  he  had  begun  in 
that  monitory  redemption  of  the  necklace.  But 
now  love  and  duty  had  thrown  other  bonds 
around  him,  and  that  impulse  could  no  longer 
determine  his  life;  still,  it  was  present  in  him 
as  a  compassionate  yearning,  a  painful  quiver- 


320  DANIEL  DERONDA 


ing  at  the  very  imagination  of  having  again  and 
again  to  meet  the  appeal  of  her  eyes  and  words. 
The  very  strength  of  the  bond,  the  certainty  of 
the  resolve,  that  kept  him  asunder  from  her, 
made  him  gaze  at  her  lot  apart  with  the  more 
aching  pity. 

He  awaited  her  coming  in  the  back  drawing- 
room,  —  part  of  that  white  and  crimson  space 
where  they  had  sat  together  at  the  musical  party, 
where  Gwendolen  had  said  for  the  first  time  that 
her  lot  depended  on  his  not  forsaking  her,  and 
her  appeal  had  seemed  to  melt  into  the  melodic 
cry,  —  Per  pietd  non  dirmi  addio.  But  the  mel- 
ody had  come  from  Mirah's  dear  voice. 

Deronda  walked  about  this  room,  which  he 
had  for  years  known  by  heart,  with  a  strange 
sense  of  metamorphosis  in  his  own  life.  The 
familiar  objects  around  him,  from  Lady  Mal- 
linger's  gently  smiling  portrait  to  the  also 
human  and  urbane  faces  of  the  lions  on  the  pi- 
lasters of  the  chimney-piece,  seemed  almost  to 
belong  to  a  previous  state  of  existence  which  he 
was  revisiting  in  memory  only,  not  in  reality; 
so  deep  and  transforming  had  been  the  impres- 
sions he  had  lately  experienced,  so  new  were  the 
conditions  under  which  he  found  himself  in  the 
house  he  had  been  accustomed  to  think  of  as  a 
home,  —  standing  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  await- 
ing the  entrance  of  a  young  creature  whose  life 
had  also  been  undergoing  a  transformation,  — 
a  tragic  transformation  towards  a  wavering  re- 
sult, in  which  he  felt  with  apprehensiveness  that 
his  own  action  was  still  bound  up. 

But  Gwendolen  was  come  in,  looking 
changed,,  not  only  by  her  mourning  dress,  but 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  321 


by  a  more  satisfied  quietude  of  expression  than 
he  had  seen  in  her  face  at  Genoa.  Her  satisfac- 
tion was  that  Deronda  was  there ;  but  there  was 
no  smile  between  them  as  they  met  and  clasped 
hands :  each  was  full  of  remembrances,  —  full 
of  anxious  prevision.  She  said,  "  It  was  good 
of  you  to  come.  Let  us  sit  down,"  immediately 
seating  herself  in  the  nearest  chair.  He  placed 
himself  opposite  to  her. 

"  I  asked  you  to  come  because  I  want  you  to 
tell  me  what  I  ought  to  do,"  she  began  at  once. 
"  Don't  be  afraid  of  telling  me  what  you  think 
is  right,  because  it  seems  hard.  I  have  made  up 
my  mind  to  do  it.  I  was  afraid  once  of  being 
poor;  I  could  not  bear  to  think  of  being  under 
other  people ;  and  that  was  w  hy  I  did  something 

—  why  I  married.  I  have  borne  worse  things 
now.  I  think  I  could  bear  to  be  poor,  if  you 
think  I  ought.  Do  you  know  about  my  hus- 
band's will?" 

"  Yes,  Sir  Hugo  told  me,"  said  Deronda,  al- 
ready guessing  the  question  she  had  to  ask. 

"  Ought  I  to  take  anything  he  has  left  me? 
I  will  tell  you  what  I  have  been  thinking,"  said 
Gwendolen,  with  a  more  nervous  eagerness. 
"  Perhaps  you  may  not  quite  know  that  I  really 
did  think  a  good  deal  about  my  mother  when  I 
married.  I  was  selfish,  but  I  did  love  her,  and 
feel  about  her  poverty ;  and  what  comforted  me 
most  at  first,  when  I  was  miserable,  was  her  being 
better  off  because  I  had  married.  The  thing  that 
would  be  hardest  to  me  now  would  be  to  see  her 
in  poverty  again ;  and  I  have  been  thinking  that 
if  I  took  enough  to  provide  for  her  and  no  more 

—  nothing  for  myself  —  it  would  not  be  wrong; 

VOL.  XIV  —  21 


322  DANIEL  DERONDA 


for  I  was  very  precious  to  my  mother  —  and  he 
took  me  from  her  —  and  he  meant  —  and  if  she 
had  known  —  " 

Gwendolen  broke  off.  She  had  been  preparing 
herself  for  this  interview  by  thinking  of  hardly 
anything  else  than  this  question  of  right  towards 
her  mother ;  but  the  question  had  carried  with  it 
thoughts  and  reasons  which  it  was  impossible  for 
her  to  utter,  and  these  perilous  remembrances 
swarmed  between  her  words,  making  her  speech 
more  and  more  agitated  and  tremulous.  She 
looked  down  helplessly  at  her  hands,  now  un- 
laden of  all  rings  except  her  wedding-ring. 

"Do  not  hurt  yourself  by  speaking  of  that," 
said  Deronda,  tenderly.  "  There  is  no  need;  the 
case  is  very  simple.  I  think  I  can  hardly  judge 
wrongly  about  it.  You  consult  me  because  I  am 
the  only  person  to  whom  you  have  confided  the 
most  painful  part  of  your  experience ;  and  I  can 
understand  your  scruples."  He  did  not  go  on 
immediately,  waiting  for  her  to  recover  herself. 
The  silence  seemed  to  Gwendolen  full  of  the 
tenderness  that  she  heard  in  his  voice,  and  she 
had  courage  to  lift  up  her  eyes  and  look  at  him 
as  he  said,  "  You  are  conscious  of  something 
which  you  feel  to  be  a  crime  towards  one  who  is 
dead.  You  think  that  you  have  forfeited  all 
claim  as  a  wife.  You  shrink  from  taking  what 
was  his.  You  want  to  keep  yourself  pure  from 
profiting  by  his  death.  Your  feeling  even  urges 
you  to  some  self -punishment,  —  some  scourg- 
ing of  the  self  that  disobeyed  your  better  will, 
the  will  that  struggled  against  temptation.  I 
have  known  something  of  that  myself.  Do  I 
understand  you  ?  " 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  323 


"  Yes,  —  at  least,  I  want  to  be  good  —  not 
like  what  I  have  been,"  said  Gwendolen.  "  I  will 
try  to  bear  what  you  think  I  ought  to  bear.  I 
have  tried  to  tell  you  the  worst  about  myself. 
What  ought  I  to  do?" 

"  If  no  one  but  yourself  were  concerned  in  this 
question  of  income,"  said  Deronda,  "  I  should 
hardly  dare  to  urge  you  against  any  remorseful 
prompting ;  but  I  take  as  a  guide  now  your  feel- 
ing about  Mrs.  Davilow,  which  seems  to  me 
quite  just.  I  cannot  think  that  your  husband's 
dues  even  to  yourself  are  nullified  by  any  act  you 
have  committed.  He  voluntarily  entered  into 
your  life,  and  affected  its  course  in  what  is 
always  the  most  momentous  way.  But  setting 
that  aside,  it  was  due  from  him  in  his  position 
that  he  should  provide  for  your  mother,  and  he 
of  course  understood  that  if  this  will  took  effect 
she  would  share  the  provision  he  had  made  for 
you." 

"  She  has  had  eight  hundred  a-year.  What 
I  thought  of  was  to  take  that  and  leave  the  rest," 
said  Gwendolen.  She  had  been  so  long  inwardly 
arguing  for  this  as  a  permission,  that  her  mind 
could  not  at  once  take  another  attitude. 

"  I  think  it  is  not  your  duty  to  fix  a  limit  in 
that  way,"  said  Deronda.  "  You  would  be  mak- 
ing a  painful  enigma  for  Mrs.  Davilow;  an  in- 
come from  which  you  shut  yourself  out  must  be 
embittered  to  her.  And  your  own  course  would 
become  too  difficult.  We  agreed  at  Genoa  that 
the  burthen  on  your  conscience  is  what  no  one 
oiight  to  be  admitted  to  the  knowledge  of.  The 
future  beneficence  of  your  life  will  be  best  fur- 
thered by  your  saving  all  others  from  the  pain 


\ 


324  DANIEL  DERONDA 


of  that  knowledge.  In  my  opinion  you  ought 
simply  to  abide  by  the  provisions  of  your  hus- 
band's will,  and  let  your  remorse  tell  only  on 
the  use  that  you  will  make  of  your  monetary 
independence." 

In  uttering  the  last  sentence  Deronda  auto- 
matically took  up  his  hat,  which  he  had  laid  on 
the  floor  beside  him.  Gwendolen,  sensitive  to  his 
slightest  movement,  felt  her  heart  giving  a  great 
leap,  as  if  it  too  had  a  consciousness  of  its  own, 
and  would  hinder  him  from  going :  in  the  same 
moment  she  rose  from  her  chair,  unable  to  re- 
flect that  the  movement  was  an  acceptance  of  his 
apparent  intention  to  leave  her;  and  Deronda 
of  course  also  rose,  advancing  a  little. 

"  I  will  do  what  you  tell  me,"  said  Gwendo- 
len, hurriedly;  "  but  what  else  shall  I  do  ?  "  No 
other  than  these  simple  w^ords  were  possible  to 
her;  and  even  these  were  too  much  for  her  in 
a  state  of  emotion  where  her  proud  secrecy  was 
disenthroned :  as  the  childlike  sentences  fell 
from  her  lips  they  reacted  on  her  like  a  picture 
of  her  own  helplessness,  and  she  could  not  check 
the  sob  which  sent  the  large  tears  to  her  eyes. 
Deronda,  too,  felt  a  crushing  pain;  but  immi- 
nent consequences  were  visible  to  him,  and  urged 
him  to  the  utmost  exertion  of  conscience.  When 
she  had  pressed  her  tears  away,  he  said,  in  a 
gently  questioning  tone,  — 

"  You  will  probably  be  soon  going  with  Mrs. 
Davilow  into  the  country?  " 

"  Yes,  in  a  week  or  ten  days."  Gwendolen 
waited  an  instant,  turning  her  eyes  vaguely 
towards  the  window,  as  if  looking  at  some  im- 
agined prospect.    "  I  want  to  be  kind  to  them 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  325 


all  —  they  can  be  happier  than  I  can.  Is  that  the 
best  I  can  do?  " 

"  I  think  so.  It  is  a  duty  that  cannot  be  doubt- 
ful," said  I)eronda.  He  paused  a  little  between 
his  sentences,  feeling  a  weight  of  anxiety  on  all 
his  words.  "  Other  duties  will  spring  from  it. 
Looking  at  your  life  as  a  debt  may  seem  the 
dreariest  view  of  things  at  a  distance;  but  it 
cannot  really  be  so.  What  makes  life  dreary  is 
the  want  of  motive;  but  once  beginning  to  act 
with  that  penitential  loving  purpose  you  have  in 
your  mind,  there  will  be  unexpected  satisfac- 
tions, —  there  will  be  newly  opening  needs,  — 
continually  coming  to  carry  you  on  from  day  to 
day.  You  will  find  your  life  growing  like  a 
plant." 

Gwendolen  turned  her  eyes  on  him  with  the 
look  of  one  athirst  towards  the  sound  of  unseen 
waters.  Deronda  felt  the  look  as  if  she  had  been 
stretching  her  arms  towards  him  from  a  for- 
saken shore.  His  voice  took  an  affectionate 
imploringness  when  he  said,  — 

"  This  sorrow,  which  has  cut  down  to  the 
root,  has  come  to  you  while  you  are  so  young,  — 
try  to  think  of  it,  not  as  a  spoiling  of  your  life, 
but  as  a  preparation  for  it.  Let  it  be  a  prepara- 
tion —  "  Any  one  overhearing  his  tones  would 
have  thought  he  was  entreating  for  his  own  hap- 
piness. "  See;  you  have  been  saved  from  the 
worst  evils  that  might  have  come  from  your  mar- 
riage, which  you  feel  was  wrong.  You  have  had 
a  vision  of  injurious,  selfish  action,  —  a  vision  of 
possible  degradation;  think  that  a  severe  angel, 
seeing  you  along  the  road  of  error,  grasped  you 
by  the  wrist,  and  showed  you  the  horror  of  the 


326  DANIEL  DERONDA 


life  you  must  avoid.  And  it  has  come  to  you  in 
your  spring-time.  Think  of  it  as  a  preparation. 
You  can,  you  will,  be  among  the  best  of  women, 
such  as  make  others  glad  that  they  were  born." 

The  words  were  like  a  touch  of  a  miracu- 
lous hand  to  Gwendolen.  Mingled  emotions 
streamed  through  her  frame  with  a  strength  that 
seemed  the  beginning  of  a  new  existence,  having 
some  new  powers  or  other  which  stirred  in  her 
vaguely.  So  pregnant  is  the  divine  hope  of 
moral  recovery  with  the  energy  that  fulfils  it. 
So  potent  in  us  is  the  infused  action  of  another 
soul,  before  which  we  bow  in  complete  love.  But 
the  new  existence  seemed  inseparable  from  De- 
ronda:  the  hope  seemed  to  make  his  presence 
permanent.  It  was  not  her  thought,  that  he 
loved  her  and  would  cling  to  her,  —  a  thought 
would  have  tottered  with  improbability;  it  was 
her  spiritual  breath.  For  the  first  time  since  that 
terrible  moment  on  the  sea  a  flush  rose  and 
spread  over  her  cheek,  brow,  and  neck,  deepened 
an  instant  or  two,  and  then  gradually  disap- 
peared.   She  did  not  speak. 

Deronda  advanced  and  put  out  his  hand,  say- 
ing, "  I  must  not  weary  you." 

She  was  startled  by  the  sense  that  he  was 
going,  and  put  her  hand  in  his,  still  without 
speaking. 

"  You  look  ill  yet,  —  unlike  yourself,"  he 
added,  while  he  held  her  hand. 

"  I  can't  sleep  much,"  she  answered,  with 
some  return  of  her  dispirited  manner.  "  Things 
repeat  themselves  in  me  so.  They  come  back 
—  they  will  all  come  back,"  she  ended  shudder- 
ingly,  a  chill  fear  threatening  her. 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  327 


"  By  degrees  they  will  be  less  insistent,"  said 
Deronda.  He  could  not  drop  her  hand  or  move 
away  from  her  abruptly. 

"  Sir  Hugo  says  he  shall  come  to  stay  at  Dip- 
low,"  said  Gwendolen,  snatching  at  previously 
intended  words  which  had  slipped  away  from 
her.    "  You  will  come  too." 

"  Probably,"  said  Deronda;  and  then  feeling 
that  the  word  was  cold,  he  added  correctively, 
"  Yes,  I  shall  come,"  and  then  released  her  hand, 
with  the  final  friendly  pressure  of  one  who  has 
virtually  said  good-by. 

"  And  not  again  here,  before  I  leave  town?  " 
said  Gwendolen,  with  timid  sadness,  looking  as 
pallid  as  ever. 

What  could  Deronda  say?  "  If  I  can  be  of 
any  use,  —  if  you  wish  me,  —  certainly  I  will." 

I  must  wish  it,"  said  Gwendolen,  impetu- 
ously; "you  know  I  must  wish  it.  What 
strength  have  I?  Who  else  is  there?"  Again 
a  sob  was  rising. 

Deronda  felt  a  pang,  which  showed  itself  in 
his  face.  He  looked  miserable  as  he  said,  "  I  will 
certainly  come." 

Gwendolen  perceived  the  change  in  his  face; 
but  the  intense  relief  of  expecting  him  to  come 
again  could  not  give  way  to  any  other  feeling, 
and  there  was  a  recovery  of  the  inspired  hope 
and  courage  in  her. 

"  Don't  be  unhappy  about  Ine,"  she  said,  in  a 
tone  of  affectionate  assurance.  "  I  shall  remem- 
ber your  words,  —  every  one  of  them.  I  shall 
remember  what  you  believe  about  me;  I  shall 
try." 

She  looked  at  him  firmly,  and  put  out  her 


328  DANIEL  DERONDA 


hand  again  as  if  she  had  forgotten  what  had 
passed  since  those  words  of  his  which  she  prom- 
ised to  remember.  But  there  was  no  approach 
to  a  smile  on  her  hps.  She  had  never  smiled 
since  her  husband's  death.  When  she  stood  still 
and  in  silence,  she  looked  like  a  melancholy 
statue  of  the  Gwendolen  whose  laughter  had 
once  been  so  ready  when  others  were  grave. 

It  is  only  by  remembering  the  searching  an- 
guish which  had  changed  the  aspect  of  the  world 
for  her  that  we  can  understand  her  behaviour 
to  Deronda,  —  the  unreflecting  openness,  nay, 
the  importunate  pleading,  with  which  she  ex- 
pi;essed  her  dependence  on  him.  Considerations 
such  as  would  have  filled  the  minds  of  indifferent 
spectators  could  not  occur  to  her,  any  more  than 
if  flames  had  been  mounting  around  her,  and  she 
had  flung  herself  into  his  opened  arms  and  clung 
about  his  neck  that  he  might  carry  her  into 
safety.  She  identified  him  with  the  struggling 
regenerative  process  in  her  which  had  begun  with 
his  action.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  she  saw  her  own 
necessity  reflected  in  his  feeling?  She  was  in 
that  state  of  unconscious  reliance  and  expecta- 
tion which  is  a  common  experience  with  us  when 
we  are  preoccupied  with  our  own  trouble  or  our 
own  purposes.  We  diffuse  our  feeling  over 
others,  and  count  on  their  acting  from  our  mo- 
tives. Her  imagination  had  not  been  turned  to 
a  future  union  with  Deronda  by  any  other  than 
the  spiritual  tie  which  had  been  continually 
strengthening;  but  also  it  had  not  been  turned 
towards  a  future  separation  from  him.  Love- 
making  and  marriage,  —  how  could  they  now 
be  the  imagery  in  which  poor  Gwendolen's  deep- 


FRUIT  AND   SEED  329 


est  attachment  could  spontaneously  clothe  itself  ? 
Mighty  Love  had  laid  his  hand  upon  her;  but 
what  had  he  demanded  of  her?  Acceptance  of 
rebuke,  —  the  hard  task  of  self -change,  —  con- 
fession, —  endurance.  If  she  cried  towards  him, 
what  then?  She  cried  as  the  child  cries  whose 
little  feet  have  fallen  backward,  —  cried  to  be 
taken  by  the  hand,  lest  she  should  lose  herself. 

The  cry  pierced  Deronda.  What  position 
could  have  been  more  difficult  for  a  man  full  of 
tenderness,  yet  with  clear  foresight  ?  He  was  the 
only  creature  who  knew  the  real  nature  of  Gwen- 
dolen's trouble:  to  withdraw  himself  from  any 
appeal  of  hers  would  be  to  consign  her  to  a  dan- 
gerous loneliness.  He  could  not  reconcile  him- 
self to  the  cruelty  of  apparently  rejecting  her 
dependence  on  him;  and  yet  in  the  nearer  or 
farther  distance  he  saw  a  coming  w-rench  which 
ail  present  strengthening  of  their  bond  would 
make  the  harder. 

He  was  obliged  to  risk  that.  He  went  once 
and  again  to  Park  Lane  before  Gwendolen  left; 
but  their  interviews  were  in  the  presence  of 
Mrs.  Davilow,  and  were  therefore  less  agitat- 
ing. Gwendolen,  since  she  had  determined  to 
accept  her  income,  had  conceived  a  project  which 
she  liked  to  speak  of :  it  was  to  place  her  mother 
and  sisters  with  herself  in  Offendene  again,  and, 
as  she  said,  piece  back  her  life  on  to  that  time 
♦  when  they  first  went  there,  and  when  everything 
was  happiness  about  her,  only  she  did  not  know 
it.  The  idea  had  been  mentioned  to  Sir  Hugo, 
who  was  going  to  exert  himself  about  the  let- 
ting of  Gadsmere  for  a  rent  which  would  more 
than  pay  the  rent  of  Offendene.    All  this  was 


330  DANIEL  DERONDA 


told  to  Deronda,  who  willingly  dwelt  on  a  sub- 
ject that  seemed  to  give  some  soothing  occupa- 
tion to  Gwendolen.  He  said  nothing,  and  she 
asked  nothing,  of  what  chiefly  occupied  himself. 
Her  mind  was  fixed  on  his  coming  to  Diplow 
before  the  autumn  was  over;  and  she  no  more 
thought  of  the  Lapidoths  —  the  .little  Jewess 
and  her  brother  —  as  likely  to  make  a  difference 
in  her  destiny,  than  of  the  fermenting  political 
and  social  leaven  which  was  making  a  differ- 
ence in  the  history  of  the  world.  In  fact,  poor 
Gwendolen's  memory  had  been  stunned,  and  aU 
outside  the  lava-lit  track  of  her  .troubled  con- 
science, and  her  effort  to  get  deliverance  from 
it,  lay  for  her  in  dim  forgetfulness. 


CHAPTER  IX 


One  day  still  fierce  'mid  many  a  day  struck  calm. 

Browning:  The  Ring  and  the  Book. 

MEANWHILE  Ezra  and  Mirah,  whom 
Gwendolen  did  not  include  in  her  think- 
ing about  Deronda,  were  having  their 
relation  to  him  drawn  closer  and  brought  into 
fuller  light. 

The  father  Lapidoth  had  quitted  his  daughter 
at  the  doorstep,  ruled  by  that  possibility  of  stak- 
ing something  in  play  or  betting  which  pre- 
sented itself  with  the  handhng  of  any  sum  be- 
yond the  price  of  staying  actual  hunger,  and 
left  no  care  for  alternative  prospects  or  resolu- 
tions. Until  he  had  lost  everything  he  never 
considered  whether  he  would  apply  to  Mirah 
again  or  whether  he  would  brave  his  son's  pres- 
ence. In  the  first  moment  he  had  shrunk  from 
encountering  Ezra  as  he  would  have  shrunk 
from  any  other  situation  of  disagreeable  con- 
straint; and  the  possession  of  Mirah's  purse 
was  enough  to  banish  the  thought  of  future 
necessities.  The  gambling  appetite  is  more  ab- 
solutely dominant  than  bodily  hunger,  which 
can  be  neutralized  by  an  emotional  or  intellec- 
tual excitation;  but  the  passion  for  watching 
chances  —  the  habitual  suspensive  poise  of  the 
mind  in  actual  or  imaginary  play  —  nullifies  the 
susceptibihty  to  other  excitation.  In  its  final, 
imperious  stage,  it  seems  the  un joyous  dissipa- 


332  DANIEL  DERONDA 


tion  of  demons,  seeking  diversion  on  the  burn- 
ing marl  of  perdition. 

But  every  form  of  selfishness,  however  ab- 
stract and  unhuman,  requires  the  support  of 
at  least  one  meal  a  day;  and  though  Lapidoth's 
appetite  for  food  and  drink  was  extremely  mod- 
erate, he  had  slipped  into  a  shabby,  unfriended 
form  of  life  in  which  the  appetite  could  not  be 
satisfied  without  some  ready  money.  When,  in 
a  brief  visit  at  a  house  which  announced  "  Pyra- 
mids "  on  the  window-blind,  he  had  first  doubled 
and  trebled  and  finally  lost  Mirah's  thirty  shil- 
lings, he  went  out  with  her  empty  purse  in  his 
pocket,  already  balancing  in  his  mind  whether 
he  should  get  another  immediate  stake  by  pawn- 
ing the  purse,  or  whether  he  should  go  back  to 
her  giving  himself  a  good  countenance  by  re- 
storing the  purse,  and  declaring  that  he  had  used 
the  money  in  paying  a  score  that  was  standing 
against  him.  Besides,  among  the  sensibilities 
still  left  strong  in  Lapidoth  was  the  sensibility 
to  his  own  claims,  and  he  appeared  to  himself 
to  have  a  claim  on  any  property  his  children 
might  possess,  which  was  stronger  than  the  jus- 
tice of  his  son's  resentment.  After  all,  to  take 
up  his  lodging  with  his  children  was  the  best 
thing  he  could  do;  and  the  more  he  thought  of 
meeting  Ezra  the  less  he  winced  from  it,  his 
imagination  being  more  wrought  on  by  the 
chances  of  his  getting  something  into  his  pocket 
with  safety  and  without  exertion,  than  by  the 
threat  of  a  private  humiliation.  Luck  had  been 
against  him  lately ;  he  expected  it  to  turn,  — 
and  might  not  the  turn  begin  with  some  open- 
ing of  supplies  which  would  present  itself 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  333 


through  his  daughter's  affairs  and  the  good 
friends  she  had  spoken  of?  Lapidoth  counted 
on  the  fascination  of  his  cleverness,  —  an  old 
habit  of  mind  which  early  experience  had  sanc- 
tioned; and  it  is  not  only  women  who  are  un- 
aware of  their  diminished  charm,  or  imagine  that 
they  can  feign  not  to  be  worn  out. 

The  result  of  Lapidoth's  rapid  balancing  was 
that  he  went  towards  the  little  square  in  Bromp- 
ton  with  the  hope  that,  by  walking  about  and 
watching,  he  might  catch  sight  of  Mirah  going 
out  or  returning,  in  which  case  his  entrance  into 
the  house  would  be  made  easier.  But  it  was 
already  evening,  —  the  evening  of  the  day  next 
to  that  on  which  he  had  first  seen  her ;  and  after 
a  little  waiting,  weariness  made  him  reflect  that 
he  might  ring,  and  if  she  were  not  at  home,  he 
might  ask  the  time  at  which  she  was  expected. 
But  on  coming  near  the  house  he  knew  that  she 
was  at  home;  he  heard  her  singing. 

Mirah,  seated  at  the  piano,  was  pouring  forth 
Herz,  mein  Herz,  while  Ezra  was  listening  with 
his  eyes  shut,  when  Mrs.  Adam  opened  the 
door,  and  said  in  some  embarrassment,  — 

"  A  gentleman  below  says  he  is  your  father, 
miss." 

"  I  will  go  down  to  him,"  said  Mirah,  starting 
up  immediately  and  looking  towards  her  brother. 

"  No,  Mirah,  not  so,"  said  Ezra,  with  decision. 
"  Let  him  come  up,  Mrs.  Adam." 

Mirah  stood  with  her  hands  pinching  each 
other,  and  feeling  sick  with  anxiety,  while  she 
continued  looking  at  Ezra,  who  had  also  risen, 
and  was  evidently  much  shaken.'  But  there  was 
an  expression  in  his  face  which  she  had  never 


384  DANIEL  DERONDA 


seen  before;  his  brow  was  knit,  his  Hps  seemed 
hardened  with  the  same  severity  that  gleamed 
from  his  eyes. 

When  Mrs.  Adam  opened  the  door  to  let  in 
the  father,  she  could  not  help  easting  a  look  at 
the  group,  and  after  glancing  from  the  younger 
man  to  the  elder,  said  to  herself  as  she  closed 
the  door,  "  Father,  sure  enough."  The  likeness 
was  that  of  outline,  which  is  always  most  strik- 
ing at  the  first  moment ;  the  expression  had  been 
wrought  into  the  strongest  contrast  by  such  hid- 
den or  inconspicuous  differences  as  can  make  the 
genius  of  a  Cromwell  within  the  outward  type 
of  a  father  who  was  no  more  than  a  respectable 
parishioner. 

Lapidoth  had  put  on  a  melancholy  expression 
beforehand,  but  there  was  some  real  wincing  in 
his  frame  as  he  said,  — 

"  Well,  Ezra,  my  boy,  you  hardly  know  me 
after  so  many  years." 

"  I  know  you  —  too  well  —  father,"  said 
Ezra,  with  a  slow  biting  solemnity  which  made 
the  word  "  father  "  a  reproach. 

"  Ah,  you  are  not  pleased  with  me.  I  don't 
wonder  at  it.  Appearances  have  been  against 
me.  When  a  man  gets  into  straits  he  can't  do 
just  as  he  would  by  himself  or  anybody  else. 
I  've  suffered  enough,  I  know,"  said  Lapi- 
doth, quickly.  In  speaking  he  always  recov- 
ered some  glibness  and  hardihood;  and  now 
turning  towards  Mirah,  he  held  out  her  purse, 
saying,  "  Here  's  your  little  purse,  my  dear.  I 
thought  you 'd  be  anxious  about  it,  because  of 
that  bit  of  writing.  I 've  emptied  it,  you  '11  see, 
for  I  had  a  score  to  pay  for  food  and  lodging. 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  335 


I  knew  you  would  like  me  to  clear  myself,  and 
here  I  stand  —  without  a  single  farthing  in  my 
pocket  —  at  the  mercy  of  my  children.  You 
can  turn  me  out  if  you  like,  without  getting  a 
policeman.  Say  the  word,  Mirah;  say,  '  Father, 
I  Ve  had  enough  of  you ;  you  made  a  pet  of 
me,  and  spent  your  all  on  me,  when  I  could  n't 
have  done  without  you;  but  I  can  do  better 
without  you  now,'  —  say  that,  and  I 'm  gone 
out  like  a  spark.  I  sha'n't  spoil  your  pleasure 
again."  The  tears  were  in  his  voice  as  usual, 
before  he  had  finished. 

"  You  know  I  could  never  say  it,  father," 
answered  Mirah,  with  not  the  less  anguish  be- 
cause she  felt  the  falsity  of  everything  in  his 
speech  except  the  implied  wish  to  remain  in  the 
house. 

"Mirah,  my  sister,  leave  us!"  said  Ezra, 
in  a  tone  of  authority. 

She  looked  at  her  brother  falteringly,  beseech- 
ingly, —  in  awe  of  his  decision,  yet  unable  to 
go  without  making  a  plea  for  this  father  who 
was  like  something  that  had  grown  in  her  flesh 
with  pain,  but  that  she  could  never  have  cut 
away  without  worse  pain.  She  went  close  to 
her  brother,  and  putting  her  hand  in  his,  said, 
in  a  low  voice,  but  not  so  low  as  to  be  unheard 
by  Lapidoth,  "  Remember,  Ezra,  —  you  said  my 
mother  would  not  have  shut  him  out." 

"  Trust  me,  and  go,"  said  Ezra. 

She  left  the  room,  but  after  going  a  few  steps 
up  the  stairs,  sat  down  with  a  palpitating  heart. 
If,  because  of  anything  her  brother  said  to  him, 
he  went  away  — 

Lapidoth  had  some  sense  of  what  was  being 


3^  DANIEL  DERONDA 

prepared  for  him  in  his  son's  mind,  but  he  was 
beginning  to  adjust  himself  to  the  situation  and 
find  a  point  of  view  that  would  give  him  a  cool 
superiority  to  any  attempt  at  humiliating  him. 
This  haggard  son,  speaking  as  from  a  sepulchre, 
had  the  incongruity  which  selfish  levity  learns 
to  see  in  suffering  and  death,  until  the  unre- 
lenting pincers  of  disease  clutch  its  own  flesh. 
Whatever  preaching  he  might  deliver  must  be 
taken  for  a  matter  of  course,  as  a  man  finding 
shelter  from  hail  in  an  open  cathedral  might  take 
a  little  religious  howling  that  happened  to  be 
going  on  there. 

Lapidoth  was  not  born  with  this  sort  of  cal- 
lousness: he  had  achieved  it. 

"  This  home  that  we  have  here,"  Ezra  began, 
"  is  maintained  partly  by  the  generosity  of  a 
beloved  friend  who  supports  me,  and  partly  by 
the  labours  of  my  sister,  who  supports  herself. 
While  we  have  a  home  we  will  not  shut  you  out 
from  it.  We  will  not  cast  you  out  to  the  mercy 
of  your  vices.  For  you  are  our  father,  and 
though  you  have  broken  your  bond,  we  acknowl- 
edge ours.  But  I  will  never  trust  you.  You 
absconded  with  money,  leaving  your  debts  un- 
paid; you  forsook  my  mother;  you  robbed  her 
of  her  little  child  and  broke  her  heart ;  you  have 
become  a  gambler,  and  where  shame  and  con- 
science were,  there  sits  an  insatiable  desire;  you 
were  ready  to  sell  my  sister,  —  you  had  sold  her, 
but  the  price  was  denied  you.  The  man  who 
has  done  these  things  must  never  expect  to  be 
trusted  any  more.  We  will  share  our  food  with 
you,  —  you  shall  have  a  bed  and  clothing.  We 
will  do  this  duty  to  j^ou,  because  you  are  our 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  337 


father.  But  you  will  never  be  trusted.  You 
are  an  evil  man:  you  made  the  misery  of  our 
mother.  That  such  a  man  is  our  father  is  a 
brand  on  our  flesh  which  will  not  cease  smart- 
ing. But  the  Eternal  has  laid  it  upon  us;  and 
though  human  justice  were  to  flog  you  for 
crimes,  and  your  body  fell  helpless  before  the 
public  scorn,  w^e  would  still  say,  '  This  is  our 
father;  make  way,  that  we  may  carry  him  out 
of  your  sight.  '  " 

Lapidoth,  in  adjusting  himself  to  what  was 
coming,  had  not  been  able  to  foresee  the  exact 
intensity  of  the  lightning  or  the  exact  course 
it  would  take,  —  that  it  would  not  fall  outside 
his  frame  but  through  it.  He  could  not  foresee 
what  was  so  new  to  him  as  this  voice  from 
the  soul  of  his  son.  It  touched  that  spring  of 
hysterical  excitability  which  Mirah  used  to  wit- 
ness in  him  when  he  sat  at  home  and  sobbed. 
As  Ezra  ended,  Lapidoth  threw  himself  into 
a  chair  and  cried  like  a  woman,  burying  his  face 
against  the  table ;  and  yet,  strangely,  while  this 
hysterical  crying  was  an  inevitable  reaction  in 
him  under  the  stress  of  his  son's  words,  it  was 
also  a  conscious  resource  in  a  difficulty,  —  just 
as  in  early  life,  when  he  was  a  bright- faced  curly 
young  man,  he  had  been  used  to  avail  himself 
of  this  subtly  poised  physical  susceptibility  to 
turn  the  edge  of  resentment  or  disapprobation. 

Ezra  sat  down  again  and  said  nothing,  —  ex- 
hausted by  the  shock  of  his  own  irrepressible 
utterance,  the  outburst  of  feelings  which  for 
years  he  had  borne  in  solitude  and  silence.  His 
thin  hands  trembled  on  the  arms  of  the  chair; 
he  would  hardly  have  found  voice  to  answer  a 

VOL.  XIV — 22 


338  DANIEL  DERONDA 


question;  he  felt  as  if  he  had  taken  a  step 
towards  beckoning  Death.  Meanwhile  Mirah's 
quick  expectant  ear  detected  a  sound  which  her 
heart  recognized:  she  could  not  stay  out  of  the 
room  any  longer.  But  on  opening  the  door  her 
immediate  alarm  was  for  Ezra,  and  it  was  to  his 
side  that  she  went,  taking  his  trembling  hand 
in  hers,  which  he  pressed  and  found  support  in; 
but  he  did  not  speak,  or  even  look  at  her.  The 
father  with  his  face  buried  was  conscious  that 
Mirah  had  entered,  and  presently  lifted  up  his 
head,  pressed  his  handkerchief  against  his  eyes, 
put  out  his  hand  towards  her,  and  said  with 
plaintive  hoarseness:  Good-by,  Mirah;  your 
father  will  not  trouble  you  again.  He  deserves 
to  die  like  a  dog  by  the  roadside,  and  he  will. 
If  your  mother  had  lived,  she  would  have  for- 
given* me,  —  thirty-four  years  ago  I  put  the 
ring  on  her  finger  under  the  Chuppa,  and  we 
were  made  one.  She  would  have  forgiven  me, 
and  we  should  have  spent  our  old  age  together. 
But  I  have  n't  deserved  it.  Good-by." 

He  rose  from  the  chair  as  he  said  the  last 
"  good-by."  Mirah  had  put  her  hand  in  his  and 
held  him.  She  was  not  tearful  and  grieving, 
but  frightened  and  awestruck,  as  she  cried 
out,  — 

"No,  father,  no!"  Then  turning  to  her 
brother,  "  E'zra,  you  have  not  forbidden  him? 
—  Stay,  father,  and  leave  off  wi'ong  things. 
Ezra,  I  cannot  bear  it.  How  can  I  say  to  my 
father,  ^  Go  and  die!"' 

"  I  have  not  said  it,"  Ezra  answered, 
with  great  effort.  "  I  have  said,  '  Stay  and 
be  sheltered.'  " 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  339 


"  Then  you  will  stay,  father,  —  and  be  taken 
care  of,  —  and  come  with  me,"  said  Mirah,  draw- 
ing him  towards  the  door. 

This  was  really  what  Lapidoth  wanted.  And 
for  the  moment  he  felt  a  sort  of  comfort  in  re- 
covering his  daughter's  dutiful  tendance,  that 
made  a  change  of  habits  seem  possible  to  him. 
She  led  him  down  to  the  parlour  below,  and 
said,  — 

"  This  is  my  sitting-room  when  I  am  not  with 
Ezra,  and  there  is  a  bedroom  behind  which  shall 
be  yours.  You  will  stay  and  be  good,  father. 
Think  that  you  are  come  back  to  my  mother, 
and  that  she  has  forgiven  you,  —  she  speaks  to 
you  through  me."  Mirah's  tones  were  implor- 
ing, but  she  could  not  give  one  of  her  former 
caresses. 

Lapidoth  quickly  recovered  his  composure, 
began  to  speak  to  Mirah  of  the  improvement 
in  her  voice,  and  other  easy  subjects,  and  when 
Mrs.  Adam  came  to  lay  out  his  supper,  entered 
into  converse  with  her  in  order  to  show  her  that 
he  was  not  a  common  person,  though  his  clothes 
were  just  now  against  him. 

But  in  his  usual  wakefulness,  at  night,  he  fell 
to  wondering  what  money  Mirah  had  by  her, 
and  went  back  over  old  Continental  hours  at 
roulette,  reproducing  the  method  of  his  play, 
and  the  chances  that  had  frustrated  it.  He  had 
had  his  reasons  for  coming  to  England,  but  for 
most  things  it  was  a  cursed  country. 

These  were  the  stronger  visions  of  the  night 
with  Lapidoth,  and  not  the  worn  frame  of  his 
ireful  son  uttering  a  terrible  judgment.  Ezra 
did  pass  across  the  gaming-table,  and  his  words 


340  DANIEL  DERONDA 

were  audible;  but  he  passed  like  an  insubstan- 
tial ghost,  and  his  words  had  the  heart  eaten 
out  of  them  by  numbers  and  movements  that 
seemed  to  make  the  very  tissue  of  Lapidoth's 
consciousness. 


CHAPTER  X 


"The  godhead  in  us  wrings  our  nobler  deeds 
From  our  reluctant  selves." 

IT  was  an  unpleasant  surprise  to  Deronda 
when  he  returned  from  the  Abbey  to  find 
the  undesirable  father  installed  in  the  lodg- 
ings at  Brompton.  Mirah  had  felt  it  necessary 
to  speak  of  Deronda  to  her  father,  and  even  to 
make  him  as  fully  aware  as  she  could  of  the 
way  in  which  the  friendship  with  Ezra  had 
begun,  and  of  the  sympathy  which  had  cemented 
it.  She  passed  more  lightly  over  what  Deronda 
had  done  for  her,  omitting  altogether  the  rescue 
from  drowning,  and  speaking  of  the  shelter  she 
had  found  in  Mrs.  Meyrick's  family  so  as  to 
leave  her  father  to  suppose  that  it  was  through 
these  friends  Deronda  had  become  acquainted 
with  her.  She  could  not  persuade  herself  to 
more  completeness  in  her  narrative:  she  could 
not  let  the  breath  of  her  father's  soul  pass  over 
her  relation  to  Deronda.  And  Lapidoth,  for 
reasons,  was  not  eager  in  his  questioning  about 
the  circumstances  of  her  flight  and  arrival  in 
England.  But  he  was  much  interested  in  the 
fact  of  his  children  having  a  beneficent  friend 
apparently  high  in  the  world. 

It  was  the  brother  who  told  Deronda  of  this 
new  condition  added  to  their  life.  "  I  am  be- 
come calm  in  beholding  him  now,"  Ezra  ended, 
"  and  I  try  to  think  it  possible  that  my  sis- 
ter's tenderness,  and  the  daily  tasting  a  life 


342  DANIEL  DERONDA 


of  peace,  may  win  him  to  remain  aloof  from 
temptation.  I  have  enjoined  her,  and  she  has 
promised,  to  trust  him  with  no  money.  I  have 
convinced  her  that  he  will  buy  with  it  his  own 
destruction." 

Deronda  first  came  on  the  third  day  from 
Lapidoth's  arrival.  The  new  clothes  for  which 
he  had  been  measured  were  not  yet  ready,  and 
wishing  to  make  a  favourable  impression,  he  did 
not  choose  to  present  himself  in  the  old  ones. 
He  watched  for  Deronda's  departure,  and  get- 
ting a  view  of  him  from  the  window  was  rather 
surprised  at  his  youthfulness,  which  Mirah  had 
not  mentioned,  and  which  he  had  somehow 
thought  out  of  the  question  in  a  personage  who 
had  taken  up  a  grave  friendship  and  hoary 
studies  with  the  sepulchral  Ezra.  Lapidoth 
began  to  imagine  that  Deronda's  real  or  chief 
motive  must  be  that  he  was  in  love  with  Mirah. 
And  so  much  the  better;  for  a  tie  to  Mirah  had 
more  promise  of  indulgence  for  her  father  than 
the  tie  to  Ezra;  and  Lapidoth  was  not  without 
the  hope  of  recommending  himself  to  Deronda, 
and  of  softening  any  hard  prepossessions.  He 
was  behaving  with  much  amiability,  and  trying 
in  all  ways  at  his  command  to  get  himself  into 
easy  domestication  with  his  children,  —  entering 
into  Mirah's  music,  showing  himself  docile  about 
smoking,  which  Mrs.  Adam  could  not  tolerate 
in  her  parlour,  and  walking  out  in  the  square 
with  his  German  pipe  and  the  tobacco  with 
which  Mirah  supplied  him.  He  was  too  acute 
to  venture  any  present  remonstrance  against  the 
refusal  of  money,  which  Mirah  told  him  that 
she  must  persist  in  as  a  solemn  duty  promised 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  343 


to  her  brother.  He  was  comfortable  enough  to 
wait. 

The  next  time  Deronda  came,  Lapidoth, 
equipped  in  his  new  clothes  and  satisfied  with 
his  own  appearance,  was  in  the  room  with  Ezra, 
who  was  teaching  himself,  as  part  of  his  severe 
duty,  to  tolerate  his  father's  presence  whenever 
it  was  imposed.  Deronda  was  cold  and  distant, 
the  first  sight  of  this  man,  who  had  blighted  the 
lives  of  his  wife  and  children,  creating  in  him 
a  repulsion  that  was  even  a  physical  discomfort. 
But  Lapidoth  did  not  let  himself  be  discour- 
aged, asked  leave  to  stay  and  hear  the  reading 
of  papers  from  the  old  chest,  and  actually  made 
himself  useful  in  helping  to  decipher  some  diffi- 
cult German  manuscript.  This  led  him  to 
suggest  that  it  might  be  desirable  to  make  a  tran- 
scription of  the  manuscript,  and  he  offered  his 
services  for  this  purpose  and  also  to  make  copies 
of  any  papers  in  Roman  characters.  Though 
Ezra's  young  eyes,  he  observed,  were  getting 
weak,  his  own  were  still  strong.  Deronda  ac- 
cepted the  offer,  thinking  that  Lapidoth  showed 
a  sign  of  grace  in  the  willingness  to  be  employed 
usefully;  and  he  saw  a  gratified  expression  in 
Ezra's  face,  who,  however,  presently  said,  "  Let 
all  the  writing  be  done  here;  for  I  cannot  trust 
the  papers  out  of  my  sdght,  lest  there  be  an 
accident  by  burning  or  otherwise."  Poor  Ezra 
felt  very  much  as  if  he  had  a  convict  on  leave 
under  his  charge.  Unless  he  saw  his  father 
working,  it  was  not  possible  to  believe  that  he 
would  work  in  good  faith.  But  by  this  arrange- 
ment he  fastened  on  himself  the  burthen  of  his 
father's  presence,  which  was  made  painful  not 


344  DANIEL  DERONDA 


only  through  his  deepest,  longest  associations, 
but  also  through  Lapidoth's  restlessness  of  tem- 
perament, which  showed  itself  the  more  as  he 
became  familiarized  with  his  situation,  and  lost 
any  awe  he  had  felt  of  his  son.  The  fact  was, 
he  was  putting  a  strong  constraint  on  himself 
in  confining  his  attention  for  the  sake  of  win- 
ning Deronda's  favour;  and  like  a  man  in  an 
uncomfortable  garment  he  gave  himself  relief 
at  every  opportunity,  going  out  to  smoke,  or 
moving  about  and  talking,  or  throwing  himself 
back  in  his  chair  and  remaining  silent,  but  in- 
cessantly carrying  on  a  dumb  language  of  facial 
movement  or  gesticulation;  and  if  Mirah  were 
in  the  room,  he  would  fall  into  his  old  habit  of 
talk  with  her,  gossiping  about  their  former 
doings  and  companions,  or  repeating  quirks, 
and  stories,  and  plots  of  the  plays  he  used  to 
adapt,  in  the  belief  that  he  could  at  will  com- 
mand the  vivacity  of  his  earlier  time.  All  this 
was  a  mortal  infliction  to  Ezra ;  and  when  Mirah 
was  at  home  she  tried  to  relieve  him,  by  getting 
her  father  down  into  the  parlour  and  keeping 
watch  over  him  there.  What  duty  is  made  of 
a  single  difficult  resolve?  The  difficulty  lies  in 
the  daily  unflinching  support  of  consequences 
that  mar  the  blessed  return  of  morning  with  the 
prospect  of  irritation  to  be  suppressed  or  shame 
to  be  endured.  And  such  consequences  were 
being  borne  by  these,  as  by  many  other,  heroic 
children  of  an  unworthy  father,  —  with  the  pros- 
pect, at  least  to  Mirah,  of  their  stretching  on- 
ward through  the  solid  part  of  life. 

Meanwhile  Lapidoth's  presence  had  raised  a 
new  im-palpable  partition  between  Deronda  and 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  345 


Mirah,  —  each  of  them  dreading  the  soiling  in- 
ferences of  his  mind,  each  of  them  interpreting 
mistakenly  the  increased  reserve  and  diffidence 
of  the  other.  But  it  was  not  very  long  before 
some  light  came  to  Deronda. 

As  soon  as  he  could,  after  returning  from  his 
brief  visit  to  the  Abbey,  he  had  called  at  Hans 
Meyrick's  rooms,  feeling  it,  on  more  grounds 
than  one,  a  due  of  friendship  that  Hans  should 
be  at  once  acquainted  with  the  reasons  of  his 
late  journey,  and  the  changes  of  intention  it 
had  brought  about.  Hans  was  not  there;  he 
was  said  to  be  in  the  country  for  a  few  days; 
and  Deronda,  after  leaving  a  note,  waited  a 
week,  rather  expecting  a  note  in  return.  But 
receiving  no  word,  and  fearing  some  freak  of 
feeling  in  the  incalculably  susceptible  Hans, 
whose  proposed  sojourn  at  the  Abbey  he  knew 
had  been  deferred,  he  at  length  made  a  second 
call,  and  was  admitted  into  the  painting-rooin, 
where  he  found  his  friend  in  a  light  coat,  with- 
out a  waistcoat,  his  long  hair  still  wet  from  a 
bath,  but  with  a  face  looking  worn  and  wizened, 
—  anything  but  country-like.  He  had  taken  up 
his  palette  and  brushes,  and  stood  before  his 
easel  when  Deronda  entered,  but  the  equipment 
and  attitude  seemed  to  have  been  got  up  on 
short  notice. 

As  they  shook  hands,  Deronda  said,  "  You 
don't  look  much  as  if  you  had  been  in  the 
country,  old  fellow.  Is  it  Cambridge  you  have 
been  to?  " 

"  No,"  said  Hans,  curtly,  throwing  down  his 
palette  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  begun  to 
feign  by  mistake;  then,  pushing  forward  a  chair 


346  DANIEL  DERONDA 


for  Deronda,  he  threw  himself  into  another,  and 
leaned  backward  with  his  hands  behind  his  head, 
while  he  went  on,  "I  've  been  to  I-don't-know- 
where  —  No  man's  land  —  and  a  mortally  un- 
pleasant country  it  is." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  have  been 
drinking,  Hans,"  said  Deronda,  who  had  seated 
himself  opposite,  in  anxious  survey. 

"  Nothing  so  good.  I 've  been  smoking 
opium.  I  always  meant  to  do  it  some  time  or 
other,  to  try  how  much  bliss  could  be  got  by 
it;  and  having  found  myself  just  now  rather 
out  of  other  bliss,  I  thought  it  judicious  to  seize 
the  opportunity.  But  I  pledge  you  my  word 
I  shall  never  tap  a  cask  of  that  bliss  again.  It 
disagrees  with  my  constitution." 

"What  has  been  the  matter?  You  were  in 
good  spirits  enough  w^hen  you  wrote  to  me." 

"  Oh,  nothing  in  particular.  The  world  began 
to  look  seedy,  —  a  sort  of  cabbage-garden  with 
all  the  cabbages  cut.  A  malady  of  genius,  you 
may  be  sure,"  said  Hans,  creasing  his  face  into 
a  smile;  "and,  in  fact,  I  was  tired  of  being 
virtuous  without  reward,  especially  in  this  hot 
London  weather." 

"Nothing  else?  No  real  vexation?"  said 
Deronda. 

Hans  shook  his  head. 

"  I  came  to  tell  you  of  my  own  affairs,  but 
I  can't  do  it  with  a  good  grace  if  you  are  to 
hide  yours." 

"  Have  n't  an  affair  in  the  world,"  said  Hans, 
in  a  flighty  way,  "  except  a  quarrel  with  a  bric- 
a-brac  man.  Besides,  as  it  is  the  first  time  in 
our  lives  that  you  ever  spoke  to  me  about  your 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  347 


own  affairs,  you  are  only  beginning  to  pay  a 
pretty  long  debt." 

Deronda  felt  convinced  that  Hans  was  be- 
having artificially,  but  he  trusted  to  a  return 
of  the  old  frankness  by  and  by  if  he  gave  his 
own  confidence. 

"  You  laughed  at  the  mystery  of  my  journey 
to  Italy,  Hans,"  he  began.  "  It  was  for  an 
object  that  touched  my  happiness  at  the  very 
roots.  I  had  never  known  anything  about  my 
parents,  and  I  really  went  to  Genoa  to  meet  my 
mother.  My  father  has  been  long  dead,  —  died 
when  I  was  an  infant.  My  mother  was  the 
daughter  of  an  eminent  Jew;  my  father  was 
her  cousin.  Many  things  had  caused  me  to 
think  of  this  origin  as  almost  a  probability  be- 
fore I  set  out.  I  was  so  far  prepared  for  the 
result  that  I  was  glad  of  it,  —  glad  to  find 
myself  a  Jew." 

"  You  must  not  expect  me  to  look  surprised, 
Deronda,"  said  Hans,  who  had  changed  his  atti- 
tude, laying  one  leg  across  the  other  and  exam- 
ining the  heel  of  his  slipper. 

"  You  knew  it?" 

"  My  mother  told  me.  She  went  to  the  house 
the  morning  after  you  had  been  there,  —  brother 
and  sister  both  told  her.  You  may  imagine  we 
can't  rejoice  as  they  do.  But  whatever  you  are 
glad  of,  I  shall  come  to  be  glad  of  in  the  end,  — 
when  exactly  the  end  may  be  I  can't  predict,"  said 
Hans,  speaking  in  a  low  tone,  which  was  as  un- 
usual with  him  as  it  was  to  be  out  of  humour  with 
his  lot,  and  yet  bent  on  making  no  fuss  about  it. 

"  I  quite  understand  that  you  can't  share  my 
feeling,"  said  Deronda;  "but  I  could  not  let 


348  DANIEL  DERONDA 


silence  lie  between  us  on  what  casts  quite  a  new 
light  over  my  future.  I  have  taken  up  some  of 
Mordecai's  ideas,  and  I  mean  to  try  and  carry 
them  out,  so  far  as  one  man's  efforts  can  go.  I 
dare  say  I  shall  by  and  by  travel  to  the  East  and 
be  away  for  some  years." 

Hans  said  nothing,  but  rose,  seized  his  palette, 
and  began  to  work  his  brush  on  it,  standing  be- 
fore his  picture  with  his  back  to  Deronda,  who 
also  felt  himself  at  a  break  in  his  path,  embar- 
rassed by  Hans's  embarrassment. 

Presently  Hans  said,  again  speaking  low,  and 
without  turning,  "  Excuse  the  question,  but  does 
Mrs.  Grandcourt  know  of  all  this?  " 

"No;  and  I  must  beg  of  you,  Hans,"  said 
Deronda,  rather  angrily,  "  to  cease  joking  on 
that  subject.  Any  notions  you  have  are  wide  of 
the  truth,  —  are  the  very  reverse  of  the  truth." 

"  I  am  no  more  inclined  to  joke  than  I  shall 
be  at  my  own  funeral,"  said  Hans.  "  But  I  am 
not  at  all  sure  that  you  are  aware  what  are  my 
notions  on  that  subject." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  Deronda.  "  But  let  me 
say,  once  for  all,  that  in  relation  to  Mrs.  Grand- 
court,  I  never  have  had,  and  never  shall  have,  the 
position  of  a  lover.  If  you  have  ever  seriously 
put  that  interpretation  on  anything  you  have  ob- 
served, you  are  supremely  mistaken." 

There  was  silence  a  little  while,  and  to  each  the 
silence  was  like  an  irritating  air,  exaggerating 
discomfort. 

"  Perhaps  I  have  been  mistaken  in  another 
interpretation  also,"  said  Hans,  presently. 
"What  is  that?" 

"  That  you  had  no  wish  to  hold  the  position  of 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  349 


a  lover  towards  another  woman,  who  is  neither 
wife  nor  widow." 

"  I  can't  pretend  not  to  understand  you,  Mey- 
rick.  It  is  painful  that  our  wishes  should  clash. 
But  I  hope  you  will  tell  me  if  you  have  any 
ground  for  supposing  that  you  would  succeed." 

"  That  seems  rather  a  superfluous  inquiry  on 
your  part,  Deronda,"  said  Hans,  with  some 
irritation. 

"  Why  superfluous?  " 

"  Because  you  are  perfectly  convinced  on  the 
subject,  —  and  probably  you  have  had  the  very 
best  evidence  to  convince  you." 

"  I  will  be  more  frank  with  you  than  you  are 
with  me,"  said  Deronda,  still  heated  by  Hans's 
show  of  temper,  and  yet  sorry  for  him.  "  I  have 
never  had  the  slightest  evidence  that  I  should 
succeed  myself.  In  fact,  I  have  very  little 
hope." 

Hans  looked  round  hastily  at  his  friend,  but 
immediately  turned  to  his  picture  again. 

"  And  in  our  present  situation,"  said  Deronda, 
hurt  by  the  idea  that  Hans  suspected  him  of 
insincerity,  and  giving  an  offended  emphasis  to 
his  words,  "  I  don't  see  how  I  can  deliberately 
make  known  my  feeling  to  her.  If  she  could  not 
return  it,  I  should  have  embittered  her  best  com- 
fort, for  neither  she  nor  I  can  be  parted  from  her 
brother,  and  we  should  have  to  meet  continually. 
If  I  were  to  cause  her  that  sort  of  pain  by  an  un- 
willing betrayal  of  my  feeling,  I  should  be  no 
better  than  a  mischievous  animal." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  have  ever  betrayed  my 
feeling  to  her,"  said  Hans,  as  if  he  were  vindi- 
cating himself. 


350  DANIEL  DERONDA 


"  You  mean  that  we  are  on  a  level;  then,  you 
have  no  reason  to  envy  me." 

"  Oh,  not  the  slightest,"  said  Hans,  with  bitter 
irony.  "  You  have  measured  my  conceit  and 
know  that  it  out-tops  all  your  advantages." 

"  I  am  a  nuisance  to  you,  Meyrick.  I  am 
sorry,  but  I  can't  help  it,"  said  Deronda,  rising. 
"  After  what  passed  between  us  before,  I  wished 
to  have  this  explanation;  and  I  don't  see  that 
any  pretensions  of  mine  have  made  a  real  differ- 
ence to  you.  They  are  not  likely  to  make  any 
pleasant  difference  to  myself  under  present  cir- 
cumstances. Now  the  father  is  there  —  did  you 
know  that  the  father  is  there?  " 

"  Yes.  If  he  were  not  a  Jew  I  would  permit 
myself  to  damn  him,  —  with  faint  praise,  I 
mean,"  said  Hans,  but  with  no  smile. 

"  She  and  I  meet  under  greater  constraint  than 
ever.  Things  might  go  on  in  this  way  for  two 
years  without  my  getting  any  insight  into  her 
feeling  towards  me.  That  is  the  whole  state  of 
affairs,  Hans.  Neither  you  nor  I  have  injured 
the  other,  that  I  can  see.  We  must  put  up  with 
this  sort  of  rivalry  in  a  hope  that  is  likely  enough 
to  come  to  nothing.  Our  friendship  can  bear 
that  strain,  surely." 

"  No,  it  can't,"  said  Hans,  impetuously, 
throwing  down  his  tools,  thrusting  his  hands 
into  his  coat-pockets,  and  turning  round  to  face 
Deronda,  who  drew  back  a  little  and  looked  at 
him  with  amazement.  Hans  went  on  in  the  same 
tone,  — 

"  Our  friendship  —  my  friendship  —  can't 
bear  the  strain  of  behaving  to  you  like  an  un- 
grateful dastard  and  grudging  you  your  hap- 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  351 


piness.  For  you  are  the  happiest  dog  in  the 
world.  If  Mirah  loves  anybody  better  than  her 
brother,  you  are  the  man.'' 

Hans  turned  on  his  heel  and  threw  himself 
into  his  chair,  looking  up  at  Deronda  with  an  ex- 
pression the  reverse  of  tender.  Something  like 
a  shock  passed  through  Deronda,  and  after  an 
instant  he  said,  — 

"  It  is  a  good-natured  fiction  of  yours,  Hans." 

"  I  am  not  in  a  good-natured  mood.  I  assure 
you  I  found  the  fact  disagreeable  when  it  was 
thrust  on  me,  —  all  the  more,  or  perhaps  all  the 
less,  because  I  believed  then  that  your  heart  was 
pledged  to  the  Duchess.  But  now,  confound 
you !  you  turn  out  to  be  in  love  in  the  right  place, 
—  a  Jew  —  and  everything  eligible." 

"  Tell  me  what  convinced  you,  —  there 's  a 
good  fellow,"  said  Deronda,  distrusting  a  de- 
light that  he  was  unused  to. 

"  Don't  ask.  Little  mother  was  witness.  The 
upshot  is  that  Mirah  is  jealous  of  the  Duchess, 
and  the  sooner  you  relieve  her  mind,  the  better. 
There !  I 've  cleared  off  a  score  or  two,  and  may 
be  allowed  to  swear  at  you  for  getting  what  you 
deserve,  —  which  is  just  the  very  best  luck  I 
know  of." 

"  God  bless  you,  Hans!  "  said  Deronda,  put- 
ting out  his  hand,  which  the  other  took  and 
wrung  in  silence. 


CHAPTER  XI 


All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights. 

Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame. 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 

And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Coleridge. 

DERONDA'S  eagerness  to  confess  his 
love  could  hardly  have  had  a  stronger 
stimulus  than  Hans  had  given  it  in  his 
assurance  that  Mirah  needed  relief  from  jeal- 
ousy. He  went  on  his  next  visit  to  Ezra  with 
the  determination  to  be  resolute  in  using  —  nay, 
in  requesting  —  an  opportunity  of  private  con- 
versation with  her.  If  she  accepted  his  love,  he 
felt  courageous  about  all  other  consequences, 
and  as  her  betrothed  husband  he  would  gain  a 
protective  authority  which  might  be  a  desirable 
defence  for  her  in  future  difficulties  with  her 
father.  Deronda  had  not  observed  any  signs  of 
growing  restlessness  in  Lapidoth,  or  of  dimin- 
ished desire  to  recommend  himself;  but  he  had 
forebodings  of  some  future  struggle,  some  mor- 
tification, or  some  intolerable  increase  of  do- 
mestic disquietude  in  which  he  might  save  Ezra 
and  Mirah  from  being  helpless  victims. 

His  forebodings  would  have  been  strength- 
ened if  he  had  known  what  was  going  on  in  the 
father's  mind.  That  amount  of  restlessness,  that 
desultoriness  of  attention,  which  made  a  small 
torture  to  Ezra,  was  to  Lapidoth  an  irksome  sub- 
mission to  restraint,  only  made  bearable  by  his 
thinking  of  it  as  a  means  of  by  and  by  securing 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  353 


a  well-conditioned  freedom.  He  began  with  the 
intention  of  awaiting  some  really  good  chance, 
such  as  an  opening  for  getting  a  considerable  sum 
from  Deronda ;  but  all  the  while  he  was  looking 
about  curiously,  and  trying  to  discover  where 
Mirah  deposited  her  money  and  her  keys.  The 
imperious  gambling  desire  within  him,  which 
carried  on  its  activity  through  every  other  occu- 
pation, and  made  a  continuous  web  of  imagina- 
tion that  held  all  else  in  its  meshes,  would  hardly 
have  been  under  the  control  of  a  protracted  pur- 
pose, if  he  had  been  able  to  lay  his  hand  on  any 
sum  worth  capturing.  But  Mirah,  with  her 
practical  clear-sightedness,  guarded  against  any 
frustration  of  the  promise  she  had  given  Ezra,  by 
confiding  all  money  except  what  she  was  imme- 
diately in  want  of,  to  Mrs.  Meyrick's  care,  and 
Lapidoth  felt  himself  under  an  irritating  com- 
pleteness of  supply  in  kind  as  in  a  lunatic  asylum 
where  everything  was  made  safe  against  him. 
To  have  opened  a  desk  or  drawer  of  Mirah's, 
and  pocketed  any  bank-notes  found  there,  would 
have  been  to  his  mind  a  sort  of  domestic  appro- 
priation which  had  no  disgrace  in  it;  the  degrees 
of  liberty  a  man  allows  himself  with  other 
people's  property  being  often  delicately  drawn, 
even  beyond  the  boundary  where  the  law  begins 
to  lay  its  hold,  —  which  is  the  reason  why  spoons 
are  a  safer  investment  than  mining  shares.  Lap- 
idoth really  felt  himself  injuriously  treated  by 
his  daughter,  and  thought  that  he  ought  to  have 
had  what  he  wanted  of  her  other  earnings  as 
he  had  of  her  apple-tart.  But  he  remained 
submissive;  indeed,  the  indiscretion  that  most 
tempted  him  was  not  any  insistence  ivith  Mirah, 

VOL.  xrv  —  23 


354  DANIEL  DERONDA 


but  some  kind  of  appeal  to  Deronda.  Clever 
persons  who  have  nothing  else  to  sell  can  often 
put  a  good  price  t)n  their  absence,  and  Lapi- 
doth's  difficult  search  for  devices  forced  upon 
him  the  idea  that  his  family  would  find  them- 
selves happier  without  him,  and  that  Deronda 
would  be  willing  to  advance  a  considerable  sum 
for  the  sake  of  getting  rid  of  him.  But,  in  spite 
of  well-practised  hardihood,  Lapidoth  was  still 
in  some  awe  of  Ezra's  imposing  friend,  and  de- 
ferred his  purpose  indefinitely. 

On  this  day,  when  Deronda  had  come  full 
of  a  gladdened  consciousness,  which  inevitably 
showed  itself  in  his  air  and  speech,  Lapidoth  was 
at  a  crisis  of  discontent  and  longing  that  made 
his  mind  busy  with  schemes  of  freedom,  and 
Deronda's  new  amenity  encouraged  them.  This 
preoccupation  was  at  last  so  strong  as  to  inter- 
fere with  his  usual  show  of  interest  in  what  went 
forward,  and  his  persistence  in  sitting  by  even 
when  there  was  reading  which  he  could  not  fol- 
low. After  sitting  a  little  while,  he  went  out  to 
smoke  and  walk  in  the  square,  and  the  two 
friends  were  all  the  easier.  Mirah  was  not  at 
home,  but  she  was  sure  to  be  in  again  before 
Deronda  left,  and  his  eyes  glowed  with  a  secret 
anticipation:  he  thought  that  when  he  saw  her 
again  he  should  see  some  sweetness  of  recogni- 
tion for  himself  to  which  his  eyes  had  been  sealed 
before.  There  was  an  additional  playful  affec- 
tionateness  in  his  manner  towards  Ezra. 

"  This  little  room  is  too  close  for  you,  Ezra," 
he  said,  breaking  off  his  reading.  "  The  week's 
heat  we  sometimes  get  here  is  worse  than  the 
heat  in  Genoa,  where  one  sits  in  the  shaded  cool- 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  355 


ness  of  large  rooms.  You  must  have  a  better 
home  now.  I  shall  do  as  I  like  with  you,  being 
the  stronger  half."  He  smiled  toward  Ezra, 
who  said,  — 

"  I  am  straitened  for  nothing  except  breath. 
But  you,  who  might  be  in  a  spacious  palace,  with 
the  wide  green  country  around  you,  find  this  a 
narrow  prison.     Nevertheless,  I  cannot  say, 

'  Go: " 

"  Oh,  the  country  would  be  a  banishment  while 
you  are  here,"  said  Deronda,  rising  and  walking 
round  the  double  room,  which  yet  offered  no  long 
promenade,  while  he  made  a  great  fan  of  his 
handkerchief.  "  This  is  the  happiest  room  in  the 
world  to  me.  Besides,  I  will  imagine  myself 
in  the  East,  since  I  am  getting  ready  to  go  there 
some  day.  Only  I  will  not  wear  a  cravat  and  a 
heavy  ring  there,"  he  ended  emphatically,  paus- 
ing to  take  off  those  superfluities  and  deposit 
them  on  a  small  table  behind  Ezra,  w^ho  had  the 
table  in  front  of  him  covered  with  books  and 
papers. 

"  I  have  been  wearing  my  memorable  ring 
ever  since  I  came  home,"  he  went  on,  as  he  re- 
seated himself.  "  But  I  am  such  a  Sybarite  that 
I  constantly  put  it  off  as  a  burthen  when  I  am 
doing  anything.  I  understand  why  the  Romans 
had  summer  rings,  —  if  they  had  them.  Now 
then,  I  shall  get  on  better." 

They  were  soon  absorbed  in  their  work  again. 
Deronda  was  reading  a  piece  of  rabbinical  He- 
brew under  Ezra's  correction  and  comment,  and 
they  took  little  notice  when  Lapidoth  re-entered 
and  seated  himself  somewhat  in  the  background. 

His  rambling  eyes  quickly  alighted  on  the 


356  DANIEL  DERONDA 


ring  that  sparkled  on  the  bit  of  dark  mahogany. 
During  his  walk  his  mind  had  been  occupied 
with  the  fiction  of  an  advantageous  opening  for 
him  abroad,  only  requiring  a  sum  of  ready 
money,  which  on  being  communicated  to  De- 
ronda  in  private,  might  immediately  draw  from 
him  a  question  as  to  the  amount  of  the  required 
sum;  and  it  was  this  part  of  his  forecast  that 
Lapidoth  found  the  most  debatable,  there  being 
a  danger  in  asking  too  much,  and  a  prospective 
regret  in  asking  too  little.  His  own  desire  gave 
him  no  limit,  and  he  was  quite  without  guidance 
as  to  the  limit  of  Deronda's  willingness.  But 
now,  in  the  midst  of  these  airy  conditions  pre- 
paratory to  a  receipt  which  remained  indefinite, 
this  ring,  which  on  Deronda's  finger  had  become 
familiar  to  Lapidoth's  envy,  suddenly  shone  de- 
tached and  within  easy  grasp.  Its  value  was 
certainly  below  the  smallest  of  the  imaginary 
sums  that  his  purpose  fluctuated  between;  but 
then  it  was  before  him  as  a  solid  fact,  and  his  de- 
sire at  once  leaped  into  the  thought  (not  yet  an 
intention)  that  if  he  were  quietly  to  pocket  that 
ring  and  walk  away  he  would  have  the  means  of 
comfortable  escape  from  present  restraint,  with- 
out trouble,  and  also  without  danger;  for  any 
property  of  Deronda's  (available  without  his 
formal  consent)  was  all  one  with  his  children's 
property,  since  their  father  would  never  be  pros- 
ecuted for  taking  it.  The  details  of  this  think- 
ing followed  each  other  so  quickly  that  they 
seemed  to  rise  before  him  as  one  picture.  Lapi- 
doth had  never  committed  larceny;  but  larceny 
is  a  form  of  appropriation  for  which  people  are 
punished  by  law;  and  to  take  this  ring  from  a 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  357 


virtual  relation,  who  would  have  been  willing  to 
make  a  much  heavier  gift,  would  not  come  under 
the  head  of  larceny.  Still,  the  heavier  gift  was 
to  be  preferred,  if  Lapidoth  could  only  make 
haste  enough  in  asking  for  it,  and  the  imaginary 
action  of  taking  the  ring,  which  kept  repeating 
itself  like  an  inward  tune,  sank  into  a  rejected 
idea.  He  satisfied  his  urgent  longing  by  resolv- 
ing to  go  below,  and  watch  for  the  moment  of 
Deronda's  departure,  when  he  would  ask  leave 
to  join  him  in  his  walk,  and  boldly  carry  out 
his  meditated  plan.  He  rose  and  stood  looking 
out  of  the  window,  but  all  the  while  he  saw  what 
lay  behind  him,  —  the  brief  passage  he  would 
have  to  make  to  the  door  close  by  the  table  where 
the  ring  was.  However,  he  was  resolved  to  go 
down;  but  —  by  no  distinct  change  of  resolu- 
tion, rather  by  a  dominance  of  desire,  like  the 
thirst  of  the  drunkard  —  it  so  happened  that  in 
passing  the  table  his  fingers  fell  noiselessly  on 
the  ring,  and  he  found  himself  in  the  passage 
with  the  ring  in  his  hand.  It  followed  that  he 
put  on  his  hat  and  quitted  the  house.  The  pos- 
sibility of  again  throwing  himself  on  his  chil- 
dren receded  into  the  indefinite  distance,  and 
before  he  was  out  of  the  square  his  sense  of 
haste  had  concentrated  itself  on  selling  the  ring 
and  getting  on  shipboard. 

Deronda  and  Ezra  were  just  aware  of  his  exit; 
that  was  all.  But  by  and  by  Mirah  came  in  and 
made  a  real  interruption.  She  had  not  taken  off 
her  hat ;  and  when  Deronda  rose  and  advanced  to 
shake  hands  with  her,  she  said,  in  a  confusion  at 
once  unaccountable  and  troublesome  to  herself, — 

"  I  only  came  in  to  see  that  Ezra  had  his  new 


358  DANIEL  DERONDA 


draught.  I  must  go  directly  to  Mrs.  Meyrick's 
to  fetch  something." 

"  Pray  allow  me  to  walk  with  you,"  said  De- 
ronda,  urgently.  "  I  must  not  tire  Ezra  any 
further ;  besides,  my  brains  are  melting.  I  want 
to  go  to  Mrs.  Meyrick's:  may  I  go  with  you?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Mirah,  blushing  still  more, 
with  the  vague  sense  of  something  new  in  De- 
ronda,  and  turning  away  to  pour  out  Ezra's 
draught;  Ezra  meanwhile  throwing  back  his 
head  with  his  eyes  shut,  unable  to  get  his  mind 
away  from  the  ideas  that  had  been  filling  it 
while  the  reading  was  going  on.  Deronda  for  a 
moment  stood  thinking  of  nothing  but  the  walk, 
till  Mirah  turned  round  again  and  brought  the 
draught,  when  he  suddenly  remembered  that  he 
had  laid  aside  his  cravat,  and  saying,  "  Pray 
excuse  my  dishabille,  —  I  did  not  mean  you  to 
see  it,"  he  went  to  the  little  table,  took  up  his 
cravat,  and  exclaimed  with  a  violent  impulse  of 
surprise,  "  Good  heavens!  where  is  my  ring 
gone?  "  beginning  to  search  about  on  the  floor. 

Ezra  looked  round  the  corner  of  his  chair. 
Mirah,  quick  as  thought,  went  to  the  spot  where 
Deronda  was  seeking,  and  said,  "  Did  you  lay 
it  down?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Deronda,  still  unvisited  by  any 
other  explanation  than  that  the  ring  had  fallen 
and  was  lurking  in  shadow,  indiscernible  on  the 
variegated  carpet.  He  was  moving  the  bits  of 
furniture  near,  and  searching  in  all  possible  and 
impossible  places  with  hand  and  eyes. 

But  another  explanation  had  visited  Mirah, 
and  taken  the  colour  from  her  cheek.  She  went 
to  Ezra's  ear  and  whispered,  "  Was  my  father 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  359 


here?  "  He  bent  his  head  in  reply,  meeting  her 
eyes  with  terrible  understanding.  She  darted 
back  to  the  spot  where  Deronda  was  still  casting 
down  his  eyes  in  that  hopeless  exploration  which 
we  are  apt  to  carry  on  over  a  space  we  have  ex- 
amined in  vain.  "  You  have  not  found  it?  "  she 
said  hurriedly. 

He,  meeting  her  frightened  gaze,  immedi- 
ately caught  alarm  from  it,  and  answered,  "  I 
perhaps  put  it  in  my  pocket,"  professing  to  feel 
for  it  there. 

She  watched  him  and  said,  "  It  is  not  there? 
—  you  put  it  on  the  table,"  with  a  penetrating 
voice  that  would  not  let  him  feign  to  have  found 
it  in  his  pocket ;  and  immediately  she  rushed  out 
of  the  room.  Deronda  followed  her,  —  she  was 
gone  into  the  sitting-room  below  to  look  for  her 
father,  —  she  opened  the  door  of  the  bedroom 
to  see  if  he  were  there,  —  she  looked  where  his 
hat  usually  hung,  —  she  turned  with  her  hands 
clasped  tight  and  her  lips  pale,  gazing  despair- 
ingly out  of  the  window.  Then  she  looked  up 
at  Deronda,  who  had  not  dared  to  speak  to  her 
in  her  white  agitation.  She  looked  up  at  him, 
unable  to  utter  a  word,  —  the  look  seemed  a 
tacit  acceptance  of  the  humiliation  she  felt  in 
bis  presence.  But  he,  taking  her  clasped  hands 
between  both  his,  said,  in  a  tone  of  reverent 
adoration,  — 

"  Mirah,  let  me  think  that  he  is  my  father  as 
well  as  yours,  —  that  we  can  have  no  sorrow,  no 
disgrace,  no  joy  apart.  I  will  rather  take  your 
grief  to  be  mine  than  I  would  take  the  brightest 
joy  of  another  woman.  Say  you  will  not  reject 
xne^  —  say  you  will  take  me  to  share  all  things 


360  DANIEL  DERONDA 


with  you.    Say  you  will  promise  to  be  my  wife 
—  say  it  now.   I  have  been  in  doubt  so  long,  — 
I  have  had  to  hide  my  love  so  long.    Say  that 
now  and  always  I  may  prove  to  you  that  I  love 
you  with  complete  love." 

The  change  in  Mirah  had  been  gradual.  She 
had  not  passed  at  once  from  anguish  to  the  full, 
blessed  consciousness  that,  in  this  moment  of 
grief  and  shame,  Deronda  was  giving  her  the 
highest  tribute  man  can  give  to  woman.  With 
the  first  tones  and  the  first  words,  she  had  only 
a  sense  of  solemn  comfort,  referring  this  good- 
ness of  Deronda's  to  his  feeling  for  Ezra.  But 
by  degrees  the  rapturous  assurance  of  unhoped- 
for good  took  possession  of  her  frame;  her  face 
glowed  under  Deronda's  as  he  bent  over  her; 
yet  she  looked  up  still  with  intense  gravity,  as 
when  she  had  first  acknowledged  with  religious 
gratitude  that  he  had  thought  her  worthy  of 
the  best;  "  and  when  he  had  finished,  she  could 
say  nothing,  —  she  could  only  lift  up  her  lips 
to  his  and  just  kiss  them,  as  if  that  were  the  sim- 
plest yes."  They  stood  then,  only  looking  at 
each  other,  he  holding  her  hands  between  his,  — 
too  happy  to  move,  meeting  so  fully  in  their  new 
consciousness  that  all  signs  would  have  seemed 
to  throw  them  farther  apart,  till  Mirah  said  in  a 
whisper,  "  Let  us  go  and  comfort  Ezra." 


CHAPTER  XII 


The  human  nature  unto  which  I  felt 
That  I  belonged,  and  reverenced  with  love, 
Was  not  a  punctual  presence,  but  a  spirit 
Diffused  through  time  and  space,  with  aid  derived 
Of  evidence  from  monuments,  erect, 
Prostrate,  or  leaning  towards  their  common  rest 
In  earth,  the  widely  scattered  wreck  sublime 
Of  vanished  nations. 

Wordsworth:  The  Prelude. 

SIR  Hugo  carried  out  his  plan  of  spending 
part  of  the  autumn  at  Diplow,  and  by  the 
beginning  of  October  his  presence  was 
spreading  some  cheerfulness  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, among  all  ranks  and  persons  concerned, 
from  the  stately  homes  of  Brackenshaw  and 
Quetcham  to  the  respectable  shop-parlours  in 
Wanchester.  For  Sir  Hugo  was  a  man  who^ 
liked  to  show  himself  and  be  affable,  a  Liberal  of 
good  lineage,  who  confided  entirely  in  Reform  as 
not  likely  to  make  any  serious  difference  in  Eng- 
lish habits  of  feeling,  one  of  which  undoubtedly 
is  the  liking  to  behold  society  well  fenced  and 
adorned  with  hereditary  rank.  Hence  he  made 
Diplow  a  most  agreeable  house,  extending  his 
invitations  to  old  Wanchester  solicitors  and 
young  village  curates,  but  also  taking  some  care 
in  the  combination  of  his  guests,  and  not  feed- 
ing all  the  common  poultry  together,  so  that 
they  should  think  their  meal  no  particular  com- 
pliment. Easy-going  Lord  Brackenshaw,  for 
example,  would  not  mind  meeting  Robinson  the 
Attorney,  but  Robinson  would  have  been  natu- 


362  DANIEL  DERONDA 


rally  piqued  if  he  had  been  asked  to  meet  a  set 
of  people  who  passed  for  his  equals.  On  all 
these  points  Sir  Hugo  was  well  informed  enough 
at  once  to  gain  popularity  for  himself  and  give 
pleasure  to  others,  —  two  results  which  emi- 
nently suited  his  disposition.  The  Rector  of 
Pennicote  now  found  a  reception  at  Diplow 
very  different  from  the  haughty  tolerance  he  had 
undergone  during  the  reign  of  Grandcourt.  It 
was  not  only  that  the  baronet  liked  Mr.  Gas- 
coigne,  it  was  that  he  desired  to  keep  up  a 
marked  relation  of  friendliness  with  him  on  ac- 
count of  Mrs.  Grandcourt,  for  whom  Sir  Hugo's 
chivalry  had  become  more  and  more  engaged. 
Why?  The  chief  reason  was  one  that  he  could 
not  fully  communicate,  even  to  Lady  Mallinger, 
—  for  he  would  not  tell  what  he  thought  one 
woman's  secret  to  another,  even  though  the  other 
was  his  wife,  —  which  shows  that  his  chivalry 
included  a  rare  reticence. 

Deronda,  after  he  had  become  engaged  to 
Mirah,  felt  it  right  to  make  a  full  statement  of 
his  position  and  purposes  to  Sir  Hugo,  and  he 
chose  to  make  it  by  letter.  He  had  more  than  a 
presentiment  that  his  fatherly  friend  would  feel 
some  dissatisfaction,  if  not  pain,  at  this  turn  of 
his  destiny.  In  reading  unwelcome  news,  in- 
stead of  hearing  it,  there  is  the  advantage  that 
one  avoids  a  hasty  expression  of  impatience 
which  may  afterwards  be  repented  of.  Deronda 
dreaded  that  verbal  collision  which  makes  other- 
wise pardonable  feeling  lastingly  offensive. 

And  Sir  Hugo,  though  not  altogether  sur- 
prised, was  thoroughly  vexed.  His  immediate 
resource  was  to  take  the  letter  to  Lady  Mai- 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  363 


linger,  who  would  be  sure  to  express  an  aston- 
ishment which  her  husband  could  argue  against 
as  unreasonable,  and  in  this  way  divide  the  stress 
of  his  discontent.  And,  in  fact,  when  she  showed 
herself  astonished  and  distressed  that  all  Daniel's 
wonderful  talents,  and  the  comfort  of  having 
him  in  the  house,  should  have  ended  in  his  going 
mad  in  this  way  about  the  Jews,  the  baronet 
could  say,  — 

"Oh,  nonsense,  my  dear!  depend  upon  it, 
Dan  will  not  make  a  fool  of  himself.  He  has 
large  notions  about  Judaism,  —  political  views 
which  you  can't  understand.  No  fear  but  Dan 
will  keep  himself  head  uppermost." 

But  with  regard  to  the  prospective  marriage, 
she  afforded  him  no  counter-irritant.  The  gentle 
lady  observed,  without  rancour,  that  she  had 
little  dreamed  of  what  was  coming  when  she 
had  Mirah  to  sing  at  her  musical  party  and  give 
lessons  to  Amabel.  After  some  hesitation,  in- 
deed, she  confessed  it  had  passed  through  her 
mind  that  after  a  proper  time  Daniel  might 
marry  Mrs.  Grandcourt,  —  because  it  seemed  so 
remarkable  that  he  should  be  at  Genoa  just  at 
that  time,  —  and  although  she  herself  was  not 
fond  of  widows  she  could  not  help  thinking  that 
such  a  marriage  would  have  been  better  than  his 
going  altogether  with  the  Jews.  But  Sir  Hugo 
was  so  strongly  of  the  same  opinion  that  he  could 
not  correct  it  as  a  feminine  mistake;  and  his 
ill-humour  at  the  disproof  of  his  agreeable  con- 
clusions on  behalf  of  Gwendolen  was  left  with- 
out vent.  He  desired  Lady  Mallinger  not  to 
breathe  a  word  about  the  affair  till  further  no- 
tice, saying  to  himself,  "If  it  is  an  unkind  cut 


364  DANIEL  DERONDA 


to  the  poor  thing  "  (meaning  Gwendolen) ,  "  the 
longer  she  is  without  knowing  it  the  better,  in 
her  present  nervous  state.  And  she  will  best 
learn  it  from  Dan  himself."  Sir  Hugo's  con- 
jectures had  worked  so  industriously  with  his 
knowledge,  that  he  fancied  himself  well  in- 
formed concerning  the  whole  situation. 

Meanwhile  his  residence  with  his  family  at 
Diplow  enabled  him  to  continue  his  fatherly 
attentions  to  Gwendolen;  and  in  these  Lady 
Mallinger,  notwithstanding  her  small  liking  for 
widows,  was  quite  willing  to  second  him. 

The  plan  of  removal  to  Offendene  had  been 
carried  out;  and  Gwendolen,  in  settling  there, 
maintained  a  calm  beyond  her  mother's  hopes. 
She  was  experiencing  some  of  that  peaceful 
melancholy  which  comes  from  the  renunciation 
of  demands  for  self,  and  from  taking  the  ordi- 
nary good  of  existence,  and  especially  kindness, 
even  from  a  dog,  as  a  gift  above  expectation. 
Does  one  who  has  been  all  but  lost  in  a  pit  of 
darkness  complain  of  the  sweet  air  and  the  day- 
light? There  is  a  way  of  looking  at  our  life 
daily  as  an  escape,  and  taking  the  quiet  return 
of  morn  and  evening  —  still  more  the  starlike 
outglowing  of  some  pure  fellow-feeling,  some 
generous  impulse  breaking  our  inward  darkness 
—  as  a  salvation  that  reconciles  us  to  hardship. 
Those  who  have  a  self-knowledge  prompting 
such  self -accusation  as  Hamlet's,  can  understand 
this  habitual  feeling  of  rescue.  And  it  was  felt 
by  Gwendolen  as  she  lived  through  and  through 
again  the  terrible  history  of  her  temptations, 
from  their  first  form  of  illusory  self -pleasing 
when  she  struggled  away  from  the  hold  of  con- 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  365 


science,  to  their  latest  form  of  an  urgent  hatred 
dragging  her  towards  its  satisfaction,  while  she 
prayed  and  cried  for  the  help  of  that  conscience 
which  she  had  once  forsaken.  She  was  now 
dwelling  on  every  word  of  Deronda's  that  pointed 
to  her  past  deliverance  from  the  worst  evil  in 
herself  and  the  worst  infliction  of  it  on  others, 
and  on  every  word  that  carried  a  force  to  resist 
self-despair. 

But  she  was  also  upborne  by  the  prospect  of 
soon  seeing  him  again :  she  did  not  imagine  him 
otherwise  than  always  within  her  reach,  her 
supreme  need  of  him  blinding  her  to  the  sepa- 
rateness  of  his  life,  the  whole  scene  of  which  she 
filled  with  his  relation  to  her,  —  no  unique  pre- 
occupation of  Gwendolen's,  for  we  are  all  apt 
to  fall  into  this  passionate  egoism  of  imagina- 
tion, not  only  towards  our  fellow-men,  but 
towards  God.  And  the  future  which  she  turned 
her  face  to  with  a  willing  step  was  one  where 
she  would  be*  continually  assimilating  herself  to 
some  type  that  he  would  hold  before  her.  Had 
he  not  first  risen  on  her  vision  as  a  corrective 
presence  which  she  had  recognized  in  the  begin- 
ning with  resentment,  and  at  last  with  entire 
love  and  trust?  She  could  not  spontaneously 
think  of  an  end  to  that  reliance,  which  had 
become  to  her  imagination  like  the  firmness  of 
the  earth,  the  only  condition  of  her  walking. 

And  Deronda  was  not  long  before  he  came 
to  Diplow,  which  was  at  a  more  convenient  dis- 
tance from  town  than  the  Abbey.  He  had 
wished  to  carry  out  a  plan  for  taking  Ezra  and 
Mirah  to  a  mild  spot  on  the  coast,  while  he 
prepared  another  home  that  Mirah  might  enter 


366  DANIEL  DERONDA 


as  his  bride,  and  where  they  might  unitedly 
watch  over  her  brother.  But  Ezra  begged  not 
to  be  removed,  unless  it  were  to  go  with  them 
to  the  East.  All  outward  solicitations  were 
becoming  more  and  more  of  a  burthen  to  him; 
but  his  mind  dwelt  on  the  possibility  of  this 
voyage  with  a  visionary  joy.  Deronda  in  his 
preparations  for  the  marriage,  which  he  hoped 
might  not  be  deferred  beyond  a  couple  of 
months,  wished  to  have  fuller  consultation  as  to 
his  resources  and  affairs  generally  with  Sir 
Hugo,  and  here  was  a  reason  for  not  delaying 
his  visit  to  Diplow.  But  he  thought  quite  as 
much  of  another  reason,  —  his  promise  to  Gwen- 
dolen. The  sense  of  blessedness  in  his  ow^n  lot 
had  yet  an  aching  anxiety  at  its  heart :  this  may 
be  held  paradoxical,  for  the  beloved  lover  is 
always  called  happy,  and  happiness  is  consid- 
ered as  a  well-fleshed  indifference  to  sorrow- 
outside  it.  But  human  experience  is  usually 
paradoxical,  if  that  means  incongruous  with  the 
phrases  of  current  talk  or  even  current  philos- 
ophy. It  was  no  treason  to  Mirah,  but  a  part 
of  that  full  nature  which  made  his  love  for  her 
the  more  worthy,  that  his  joy  in  her  could  hold 
by  its  side  the  care  for  another.  For  what  is 
love  itself,  for  the  one  we  love  best  ?  —  an  en- 
folding of  immeasurable  cares  which  yet  are 
better  than  any  joys  outside  our  love. 

Deronda  came  twice  to  Diplow,  and  saw 
Gwendolen  twice,  —  and  yet  he  went  back  to 
town  without  having  told  her  anything  about 
the  change  in  his  lot  and  prospects.  He  blamed 
himself;  but  in  all  momentous  communication 
likely  to  give  pain  we  feel  dependent  on  some 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  367 


preparatory  turn  of  words  or  associations,  some 
agreement  of  the  other's  mood  with  the  prob- 
able effect  of  what  we  have  to  impart.  In  the 
first  interview  Gwendolen  was  so  absorbed  in 
what  she  had  to  say  to  him,  so  full  of  questions 
which  he  must  answer,  about  the  arrangement 
of  her  life,  what  she  could  do  to  make  herself 
less  ignorant,  how  she  could  be  kindest  to  every- 
body, and  make  amends  for  her  selfishness  and 
try  to  be  rid  of  it,  that  Deronda  utterly  shrank 
from  waiving  her  immediate  wants  in  order  to 
speak  of  himself,  nay,  from  inflicting  a  wound 
on  her  in  these  moments  when  she  was  leaning 
on  him  for  help  in  her  path.  In  the  second 
interview,  when  he  went  with  new  resolve  to 
command  the  conversation  into  some  prepara- 
tory track,  he  found  her  in  a  state  of  deep 
depression,  overmastered  by  those  distasteful 
miserable  memories  which  forced  themselves  on 
her  as  something  more  real  and  ample  than  any 
new  material  out  of  which  she  could  mould  her 
future.  She  cried  hysterically,  and  said  that  he 
would  always  despise  her.  He  could  only  seek 
words  of  soothing  and  encouragement;  and 
when  she  gradually  revived  under  them,  with 
that  pathetic  look  of  renewed  childlike  interest 
which  we  see  in  eyes  where  the  lashes  are  still 
beaded  with  tears,  it  was  impossible  to  lay 
another  burthen  on  her. 

But  time  went  on,  and  he  felt  it  a  pressing 
duty  to  make  the  difficult  disclosure.  Gwen- 
dolen, it  is  true,  never  recognized  his  having 
any  affairs;  and  it  had  never  even  occurred  to 
her  to  ask  him  why  he  happened  to  be  at  Genoa. 
But  this  unconsciousness  of  hers  would  make  a 


368  DANIEL  DERONDA 


sudden  revelation  of  affairs  that  were  determin- 
ing his  course  in  Ufe  all  the  heavier  blow  to  her; 
and  if  he  left  the  revelation  to  be  made  by  in- 
different persons,  she  would  feel  that  he  had 
treated  her  with  cruel  inconsiderateness.  He 
could  not  make  the  communication  in  writing: 
his  tenderness  could  not  bear  to  think  of  her 
reading  his  virtual  farewell  in  solitude,  and 
perhaps  feeling  his  words  full  of  a  hard  glad- 
ness for  himself  and  indifference  for  her.  He 
went  down  to  Diplow  again,  feeling  that  every 
other  peril  was  to  be  incurred  rather  than  that 
of  returning  and  leaving  her  still  in  ignorance. 

On  this  third  visit  Deronda  found  Hans  Mey- 
rick  installed  with  his  easel  at  Diplow,  begin- 
ning his  picture  of  the  three  daughters  sitting 
on  a  bank  "  in  the  Gainsborough  style,"  and 
varying  his  work  by  rambling  to  Pennicote  to 
sketch  the  village  children  and  improve  his 
acquaintance  with  the  Gascoignes.  Hans  ap- 
peared to  have  recovered  his  vivacity,  but  De- 
ronda detected  some  feigning  in  it,  as  we  detect 
the  artificiality  of  a  lady's  bloom  from  its  being 
a  little  too  high-toned  and  steadily  persistent 
(a  "Fluctuating  Rouge"  not  having  yet  ap- 
peared among  the  advertisements ) .  Also,  with 
all  his  grateful  friendship  and  admiration  for 
Deronda,  Hans  could  not  help  a  certain  irri- 
tation against  him  such  as  extremely  incautious, 
open  natures  are  apt  to  feel  when  the  breaking 
of  a  friend's  reserve  discloses  a  state  of  things 
not  merely  unsuspected  but  the  reverse  of  what 
had  been  hoped  and  ingeniously  conjectured. 
It  is  true  that  poor  Hans  had  always  cared 
chiefly  to  confide  in  Deronda,  and  had  been 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  369 


quite  incurious  as  to  any  confidence  that  might 
have  been  given  in  return;  but  what  outpourer 
of  his  own  affairs  is  not  tempted  to  think  any 
hint  of  his  friend's  affairs  as  an  egoistic  irrele- 
vance? That  was  no  reason  why  it  was  not 
rather  a  sore  reflection  to  Hans  that  while  he 
had  been  all  along  naively  opening  his  heart 
about  Mirah,  Deronda  had  kept  secret  a  feel- 
ing of  rivalry  which  now  revealed  itself  as  the 
important  determining  fact.  Moreover,  it  is 
always  at  their  peril  that  our  friends  turn  out 
to  be  something  more  than  we  were  aware  of. 
Hans  must  be  excused  for  these  promptings  of 
bruised  sensibility,  since  he  had  not  allowed  them 
to  govern  his  substantial  conduct:  he  had  the 
consciousness  of  having  done  right  by  his  for- 
tunate friend;  or,  as  he  told  himself,  "  his  metal 
had  given  a  better  ring  than  he  would  have 
sworn  to  beforehand."  For  Hans  had  always 
said  that  in  point  of  virtue  he  was  a  dilettante; 
which  meant  that  he  was  very  fond  of  it  in  other 
people,  but  if  he  meddled  with  it  himself  he 
cut  a  poor  figure.  Perhaps  in  reward  of  his 
good  behaviour  he  gave  his  tongue  the  more 
freedom;  and  he  was  too  fully  possessed  by  the 
notion  of  Deronda's  happiness  to  have  a  con- 
ception of  what  he  was  feeling  about  Gwendo- 
len, so  that  he  spoke  of  her  without  hesitation. 

"When  did  you  come  down,  Hans?"  said 
Deronda,  joining  him  in  the  grounds  where  he 
was  making  a  study  of  the  requisite  bank  and 
trees. 

"  Oh,  ten  days  ago,  —  before  the  time  Sir 
Hugo  fixed.  I  ran  down  with  Rex  Gascoigne, 
and  stayed  at  the  Rectory  a  day  or  two.    I 'm 

VOL.  XIV  —  24 


370  DANIEL  DERONDA 


up  in  all  the  gossip  of  these  parts,  —  I  know 
the  state  of  the  wheelwright's  interior,  and  have 
assisted  at  an  infant  school  examination.  Sister 
Anna  with  the  good  upper  lip  escorted  me,  else 
I  should  have  been  mobbed  by  three  urchins 
and  an  idiot,  because  of  my  long  hair  and  a 
general  appearance  which  departs  from  the  Pen- 
nicote  type  of  the  beautiful.  Altogether,  the 
village  is  idyllic.  Its  only  fault  is  a  dark  curate 
with  broad  shoulders  and  broad  trousers,  who 
ought  to  have  gone  into  the  heavy  drapery  line. 
The  Gascoignes  are  perfect,  —  besides  being 
related  to  the  Vandyke  Duchess.  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her  in  her  black  robes  at  a  distance, 
though  she  does  n't  show  to  visitors." 

"  She  was  not  staying  at  the  Rectory?  "  said 
Deronda. 

"No;  but  I  was  taken  to  Offendene  to  se6 
the  old  house,  and  as  a  consequence  I  saw  the 
Duchess's  family.  I  suppose  you  have  been 
there  and  know  all  about  them?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  there,"  said  Deronda, 
quietly. 

"  A  fine  old  place.  An  excellent  setting  for 
a  widow  with  romantic  fortunes.  And  she  seems 
to  have  had  several  romances.  I  think  I  have 
found  out  that  there  was  one  between  her  and 
my  friend  Rex." 

"  Not  long  before  her  marriage,  then?  "  said 
Deronda,  really  interested;  "  for  they  had  only 
been  a  year  at  Offendene.  How  came  you  to 
know  anything  of  it?  " 

"  Oh,  —  not  ignorant  of  what  it  is  to  be  a 
miserable  devil,  I  learn  to  gloat  on  the  signs 
of  misery  in  others.    I  found  out  that  Rex 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  371 


never  goes  to  Offendene,  and  has  never  seen 
the  Duchess  since  she  came  back;  and  Miss 
Gascoigne  let  fall  something  in  our  talk  about 
charade-acting,  —  for  I  went  through  some  of 
my  nonsense  to  please  the  young  ones,  —  some- 
thing which  proved  to  me  that  Rex  was  once 
hovering  about  his  fair  cousin  close  enough  to 
get  singed.  I  don't  know  what  was  her  part  in 
the  affair.  Perhaps  the  Duke  came  in  and  car- 
ried her  off.  That  is  always  the  way  when  an 
exceptionally  worthy  young  man  forms  an  at- 
tachment. I  understand  now  why  Gascoigne 
talks  of  making  the  law  his  mistress  and  remain- 
ing a  bachelor.  But  these  are  green  resolves. 
Since  the  Duke  did  not  get  himself  drowned 
for  your  sake,  it  may  turn  out  to  be  for  my 
friend  Rex's  sake.   Who  knows?  " 

"  Is  it  absolutely  necessary  that  Mrs.  Grand- 
court  should  marry  again?  "  said  Deronda,  ready 
to  add  that  Hans's  success  in  constructing  her 
fortunes  hitherto  had  not  been  enough  to  war- 
rant a  new  attempt. 

"You  monster!"  retorted  Hans,  "do  you 
want  her  to  wear  weeds  for  you  all  her  life,  — 
burn  herself  in  perpetual  suttee  while  you  are 
alive  and  merry?  " 

Deronda  could  say  nothing,  but  he  looked  so 
much  annoyed  that  Hans  turned  the  current  of 
his  chat,  and  when  he  was  alone  shrugged  his 
shoulders  a  little  over  the  thought  that  there 
really  had  been  some  stronger  feeling  between 
Deronda  and  the  Duchess  than  Mirah  would 
like  to  know  of.  "  Why  did  n't  she  fall  in 
love  with  me? "  thought  Hans,  laughing  at 
himself.    "  She  would  have  had  no  rivals.  No 


372  DANIEL  DERONDA 


woman  ever  wanted  to  discuss  theology  with 
me." 

No  wonder  that  Deronda  winced  under  that 
sort  of  joking  with  a  whip-lash.  It  touched 
sensibilities  that  were  already  quivering  with  the 
anticipation  of  witnessing  some  of  that  pain  to 
which  even  Hans's  light  words  seemed  to  give 
more  reality,  —  any  sort  of  recognition  by  an- 
other giving  emphasis  to  the  subject  of  our 
anxiety.  And  now  he  had  come  down  with  the 
firm  resolve  that  he  would  not  again  evade  the 
trial.  The  next  day  he  rode  to  Offendene.  He 
had  sent  word  that  he  intended  to  call  and  to  - 
ask  if  Gwendolen  could  receive  him;  and  he 
found  her  awaiting  him  in  the  old  drawing- 
room  where  some  chief  crises  of  her  life  had 
happened.  She  seemed  less  sad  than  he  had 
seen  her  since  her  husband's  death;  there  was 
no  smile  on  her  face,  but  a  placid  self-possession, 
in  contrast  with  the  mood  in  which  he  had  last 
found  her.  She  was  all  the  more  alive  to  the 
sadness  perceptible  in  Deronda;  and  they  were 
no  sooner  seated  —  he  at  a  little  distance  oppo- 
site to  her  —  than  she  said,  — 

"  You  were  afraid  of  coming  to  see  me,  be- 
cause I  was  so  full  of  grief  and  despair  the  last 
time.  But  I  am  not  so  to-day.  I  have  been 
sorry  ever  since.  I  have  been  making  it  a 
reason  why  I  should  keep  up  my  hope  and  be 
as  cheerful  as  I  can,  because  I  would  not  give 
you  any  pain  about  me." 

There  was  an  unwonted  sweetness  in  Gwen- 
dolen's tone  and  look  as  she  uttered  these  words 
that  seemed  to  Deronda  to  infuse  the  utmost 
cruelty  into  the  task  now  laid  upon  him.  But 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  373 


he  felt  obliged  to  make  his  answer  a  beginning 
of  the  task. 

"  I  am  in  some  trouble  to-day,"  he  said,  look- 
ing at  her  rather  mournfully;  "  but  it  is  because 
I  have  things  to  tell  you  which  you  will  almost 
think  it  a  want  of  confidence  on  my  part  not 
to  have  spoken  of  before.  They  are  things 
affecting  my  own  life,  —  my  own  future.  I 
shall  seem  to  have  made  an  ill  return  to  you 
for  the  trust  you  have  placed  in  me  —  never  to 
have  given  you  an  idea  of  events  that  make 
great  changes  for  me.  But  when  we  have  been 
together  we  have  hardly  had  time  to  enter  into 
subjects  which  at  the  moment  were  really  less 
pressing  to  me  than  the  trials  you  have  been 
going  through."  There  was  a  sort  of  timid 
tenderness  in  Deronda's  deep  tones,  and  he 
paused  with  a  pleading  look,  as  if  it  had  been 
Gwendolen  only  who  had  conferred  anything  in 
her  scenes  of  beseeching  and  confession. 

A  thrill  of  surprise  was  visible  in  her.  Such 
meaning  as  she  found  in  his  words  had  shaken 
her,  but  without  causing  fear.  Her  mind  had 
flown  at  once  to  some  change  in  his  position 
with  regard  to  Sir  Hugo  and  Sir  Hugo's  prop- 
erty. She  said,  with  a  sense  of  comfort  from 
Deronda's  way  of  asking  her  pardon,  — 

"  You  never  thought  of  anything  but  what 
you  could  do  to  help  me ;  and  I  was  so  trouble- 
some.   How  could  you  tell  me  things?  " 

"  It  will  perhaps  astonish  you,"  said  Deronda, 
"  that  I  have  only  quite  lately  known  who  were 
my  parents." 

Gwendolen  was  not  astonished:  she  felt  the 
more  assured  that  her  expectations  of  what  was 


374  DANIEL  DERONDA 


coming  were  right.  Deronda  went  on  without 
check. 

"  The  reason  why  you  found  me  in  Italy  was 
that  I  had  gone  there  to  learn  that  —  in  fact,  to 
meet  my  mother.  It  was  by  her  wish  that  I  was 
brought  up  in  ignorance  of  my  parentage.  She 
parted  with  me  after  my  father's  death,  when 
I  was  a  little  creature.  But  she  is  now  very 
ill,  and  she  felt  that  the  secrecy  ought  not  to 
be  any  longer  maintained.  Her  chief  reason 
had  been  that  she  did  not  wish  me  to  know  I 
was  a  Jew." 

"  A  Jew! "  Gwendolen  exclaimed,  in  a  low 
tone  of  amazement,  wdth  an  utterly  frustrated 
look,  as  if  some  confusing  potion  were  creeping 
through  her  system. 

Deronda  coloured  and  did  not  speak,  while 
Gwendolen,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor, 
was  struggling  to  find  her  way  in  the  dark  by 
the  aid  of  various  reminiscences.  She  seemed 
at  last  to  have  arrived  at  some  judgment,  for 
she  looked  up  at  Deronda  again  and  said,  as  if 
remonstrating  against  the  mother's  conduct,  — 

"What  difference  need  that  have  made?" 

"  It  has  made  a  great  difference  to  me  that 
I  have  known  it,"  said  Deronda,  emphatically; 
but  he  could  not  go  on  easily,  —  the  distance 
between  her  ideas  and  his  acted  like  a  differ- 
ence of  native  language,  making  him  uncertain 
what  force  his  words  would  carry. 

Gwendolen  meditated  again,  and  then  said 
feelingly:  "  I  hope  there  is  nothing  to  make  you 
mind.  You  are  just  the  same  as  if  you  were 
not  a  Jew." 

She  meant  to  assure  him  that  nothing  of  that 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  375 


external  sort  could  affect  the  way  in  which  she 
regarded  him,  or  the  way  in  which  he  could 
influence  her.  Deronda  was  a  little  helped  by 
this  misunderstanding. 

"  The  discovery  was  far  from  being  painful 
to  me,"  he  said.  "  I  had  been  gradually  pre- 
pared for  it,  and  I  was  glad  of  it.  I  had  been 
prepared  for  it  by  becoming  intimate  with  a 
very  remarkable  Jew,  whose  ideas  have  attracted 
me  so  much  that  I  think  of  devoting  the  best 
part  of  my  life  to  some  effort  at  giving  them 
effect." 

Again  Gwendolen  seemed  shaken,  —  again 
there  was  a  look  of  frustration,  but  this  time 
it  was  mingled  with  alarm.  She  looked  at 
Deronda  with  lips  childishly  parted.  It  was 
not  that  she  had  yet  connected  his  words  with 
Mirah  and  her  brother,  but  that  they  had  in- 
spired her  with  a  dreadful  presentiment  of 
mountainous  travel  for  her  mind  before  it  could 
reach  Deronda' s.  Great  ideas  in  general  which 
she  had  attributed  to  him  seemed  to  make  no 
great  practical  difference,  and  were  not  formi- 
dable in  the  same  way  as  these  mysteriously 
shadowed  particular  ideas.  He  could  not  quite 
divine  what  was  going  on  within  her;  he  could 
only  seek  the  least  abrupt  path  of  disclosure. 

"  That  is  an  object,"  he  said,  after  a  mo- 
ment, "  which  will  by  and  by  force  me  to 
leave  England  for  some  time  —  for  some  years. 
I  have  purposes  which  will  take  me  to  the 
East." 

Here  was  something  clearer,  but  all  the  more 
immediately  agitating.  Gwendolen's  lip  began 
to  tremble.    "  But  you  will  come  back?  "  she 


376         DANIEL  DERONDA 


said,  tasting  her  own  tears  as  they  fell,  before 
she  thought  of  drying  them. 

Deronda  could  not  sit  still.  He  rose,  and 
went  to  prop  himself  against  the  corner  of  the 
mantelpiece,  at  a  different  angle  from  her  face. 
But  when  she  had  pressed  her  handkerchief 
against  her  cheeks  she  turned  and  looked  up  at 
him,  awaiting  an  answer. 

"  If  I  live,"  said  Deronda,  —  "  some  time,'' 

They  were  both  silent.  He  could  not  per- 
suade himself  to  say  more  unless  she  led  up  to  it 
by  a  question ;  and  she  was  apparently  meditat- 
ing something  that  she  had  to  say. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do?  "  she  asked,  at 
last,  very  timidly.  "  Can  I  understand  the  ideas, 
or  am  I  too  ignorant?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  the  East  to  become  better  ac- 
quainted with  the  condition  of  my  race  in  vari- 
ous countries  there,"  said  Deronda,  gently,  — 
anxious  to  be  as  explanatory  as  he  could  on  what 
was  the  impersonal  part  of  their  separateness 
from  each  other.  "  The  idea  that  I  am  possessed 
with  is  that  of  restoring  a  political  existence  to 
my  people,  making  them  a  nation  again,  giving 
them  a  national  centre,  such  as  the  English  have, 
though  they  too  are  scattered  over  the  face  of 
the  globe.  That  is  a  task  which  presents  itself 
to  me  as  a  duty :  I  am  resolved  to  begin  it,  how- 
ever feebly.  I  am  resolved  to  devote  my  life 
to  it.  At  the  least,  I  may  awaken  a  movement  in 
other  minds,  such  as  has  been  awakened  in  my 
own." 

There  was  a  long  silence  between  them.  The 
world  seemed  getting  larger  round  poor  Gwen- 
dolen, and  she  more  solitary  and  helpless  in  the 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  377 


midst.  The  thought  that  he  might  come  back 
after  going  to  the  East,  sank  before  the  bewil- 
dering vision  of  these  wide-stretching  purposes 
in  which  she  felt  herself  reduced  to  a  mere  speck. 
There  comes  a  terrible  moment  to  many  souls 
when  the  great  movements  of  the  world,  the 
larger  destinies  of  mankind,  which  have  lain 
aloof  in  newspapers  and  other  neglected  read- 
ing, enter  like  an  earthquake  into  their  own  lives, 
—  when  the  slow  urgency  of  growing  genera- 
tions turns  into  the  tread  of  an  invading  army 
or  the  dire  clash  of  civil  war,  and  gray  fathers 
know  nothing  to  seek  for  but  the  corpses  of  their 
blooming  sons,  and  girls  forget  all  vanity  to 
make  lint  and  bandages  which  may  serve  for 
the  shattered  limbs  of  their  betrothed  husbands. 
Then  it  is  as  if  the  Invisible  Power  that  has  been 
the  object  of  lip-worship  and  lip -resignation  be- 
came visible,  according  to  the  imagery  of  the 
Hebrew  poet,  making  the  flames  his  chariot,  and 
riding  on  the  wings  of  the  wind,  till  the  moun- 
tains smoke  and  the  plains  shudder  under  the 
rolling  fiery  visitation.  Often  the  good  cause 
seems  to  lie  prostrate  under  the  thunder  of  unre- 
lenting force,  the  martyrs  live  reviled,  they  die, 
and  no  angel  is  seen  holding  forth  the  crown  and 
the  palm  branch.  Then  it  is  that  the  submission 
of  the  soul  to  the  Highest  is  tested,  and  even 
in  the  eyes  of  frivolity  life  looks  out  from  the 
scene  of  human  struggle  with  the  awful  face  of 
duty,  and  a  religion  shows  itself  which  is  some- 
thing else  than  a  private  consolation. 

That  was  the  sort  of  crisis  which  was  at  this 
moment  beginning  in  Gwendolen's  small  life: 
she  was  for  the  first  time  feeling  the  pressure 


378         DANIEL  DERONDA 


of  a  vast  mysterious  movement,  for  the  first  time 
being  dislodged  from  her  supremacy  in  her  own 
world,  and  getting  a  sense  that  her  horizon  was 
but  a  dipping  onward  of  an  existence  with  which 
her  own  was  revolving.  All  the  troubles  of  her 
wifehood  and  widowhood  had  still  left  her  with 
the  implicit  impression  which  had  accompanied 
her  from  childhood,  that  whatever  surrounded 
her  was  somehow  specially  for  her,  and  it  was 
because  of  this  that  no  personal  jealousy  had 
been  roused  in  her  in  relation  to  Deronda:  she 
could  not  spontaneously  think  of  him  as  right- 
fully belonging  to  others  more  than  to  her.  But 
here  had  come  a  shock  which  went  deeper  than 
personal  jealousy,  —  something  spiritual  and 
vaguely  tremendous  that  thrust  her  away,  and 
yet  quelled  all  anger  into  self-humiliation. 

There  had  been  a  long  silence.  Deronda  had 
stood  still,  even  thankful  for  an  interval  before 
he  needed  to  say  more,  and  Gwendolen  had  sat 
like  a  statue  with  her  wrists  lying  over  each  other 
and  her  eyes  fixed,  —  the  intensity  of  her  mental 
action  arresting  all  other  excitation.  At  length 
something  occurred  to  her  that  made  her  turn 
her  face  to  Deronda  and  say  in  a  trembling 
voice,  — 

"  Is  that  all  you  can  tell  me?  " 

The  question  was  like  a  dart  to  him.  "  The 
Jew  whom  I  mentioned  just  now,"  he  answered, 
not  without  a  certain  tremor  in  his  tones  too, 
"  the  remarkable  man  who  has  greatly  influ- 
enced my  mind,  has  not  perhaps  been  totally 
unheard  of  by  you.  He  is  the  brother  of  Miss 
Lapidoth,  whom  you  have  often  heard  sing." 

A  great  wave  of  remembrance  passed  through 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  379 


Gwendolen,  and  spread  as  a  deep  painful  flush 
over  face  and  neck.  It  had  come  first  as  the 
scene  of  that  morning  when  she  had  called  on 
Mirah,  and  heard  Deronda's  voice  reading,  and 
been  told,  without  then  heeding  it,  that  he  was 
reading  Hebrew  with  Mirah's  brother. 

"  He  is  very  ill,  —  very  near  death  now,"  De- 
ronda  went  on  nervously,  and  then  stopped 
short.  He  felt  that  he  must  wait.  Would  she 
divine  the  rest? 

"  Did  she  tell  you  that  I  went  to  her? "  said 
Gwendolen,  abruptly,  looking  up  at  him. 

"  No,"  said  Deronda.  "  I  don't  understand 
you." 

She  turned  away  her  eyes  again,  and  sat  think- 
ing. Slowly  the  colour  died  out  of  face  and  neck, 
and  she  was  as  pale  as  before,  —  with  that  almost 
withered  paleness  which  is  seen  after  a  painful 
flush.  At  last  she  said,  without  turning  towards 
him,  —  in  a  low,  measured  voice,  as  if  she  were 
only  thinking  aloud  in  preparation  for  future 
speech,  — 

"  But  can  you  marry?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Deronda,  also  in  a  low  voice.  "  I 
am  going  to  marry." 

At  first  there  was  no  change  in  Gwendolen's 
attitude ;  she  only  began  to  tremble  visibly ;  then 
she  looked  before  her  with  dilated  eyes,  as  at 
something  Ijning  in  front  of  her,  till  she  stretched 
her  arms  out  straight,  and  cried  with  a  smoth- 
ered voice,  — 

"  I  said  I  should  be  forsaken.  I  have  been  a 
cruel  woman.    And  I  am  forsaken." 

Deronda's  anguish  was  intolerable.  He  could 
not  help  himself.    He  seized  her  outstretched 


380  DANIEL  DERONDA 


hands  and  held  them  together,  and  kneeled  at 
her  feet.   She  was  the  victim  of  his  happiness. 

"  I  am  cruel  too,  I  am  cruel,"  he  repeated,  with 
a  sort  of  groan,  looking  up  at  her  imploringly. 

His  presence  and  touch  seemed  to  dispel  a 
horrible  vision,  and  she  met  his  upward  look  of 
sorrow  with  something  like  the  return  of  con- 
sciousness after  fainting.  Then  she  dwelt  on  it 
with  that  growing  pathetic  movement  of  the 
brow  which  accompanies  the  revival  of  some 
tender  recollection.  The  look  of  sorrow  brought 
back  what  seemed  a  very  far-off  moment,  —  the 
first  time  she  had  ever  seen  it,  in  the  library  at 
the  Abbey.  Sobs  rose,  and  great  tears  fell  fast. 
Deronda  would  not  let  her  hands  go,  —  held 
them  still  with  one  of  his,  and  himself  pressed 
her  handkerchief  against  her  eyes.  She  sub- 
mitted like  a  half -soothed  child,  making  an 
effort  to  speak,  which  was  hindered  by  strug- 
gling sobs.  At  last  she  succeeded  in  saying 
brokenly,  — 

"  I  said  ...  I  said  ...  it  should  be  better 
.  .  .  better  with  me  ...  for  having  known 
you." 

His  eyes  too  were  larger  with  tears.  She 
wrested  one  of  her  hands  from  his,  and  returned 
his  action,  pressing  his  tears  away. 

"  We  shall  not  be  quite  parted,"  he  said.  I 
will  write  to  you  always,  when  I  can,  and  you 
will  answer?  " 

He  waited  till  she  said  in  a  whisper,  "  I  will 
try." 

"  I  shall  be  more  with  you  than  I  used  to  be,"  :si. 
Deronda  said  with  gentle  urgency,  releasing  her  ^ 
hands  and  rising  from  his  kneeling  posture. 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  381 


"If  we  had  been  much  together  before,  we 
should  have  felt  our  differences  more,  and  seemed 
to  get  farther  apart.  Now  we  can  perhaps  never 
see  each  other  again.  But  our  minds  may  get 
nearer." 

Gwendolen  said  nothing,  but  rose  too,  auto- 
matically. Her  withered  look  of  grief,  such  as 
the  sun  often  shines  on  when  the  blinds  are  drawn 
up  after  the  burial  of  life's  joy,  made  him  hate 
his  own  words:  they  seemed  to  have  the  hard- 
ness of  easy  consolation  in  them.  She  felt  that 
he  was  going,  and  that  nothing  could  hinder  it. 
The  sense  of  it  was  like  a  dreadful  whisper  in 
her  ear,  which  dulled  all  other  consciousness; 
and  she  had  not  known  that  she  was  rising. 

Deronda  could  not  speak  again.  He  thought 
that  they  must  part  in  silence,  but  it  was  difficult 
to  move  towards  the  parting,  till  she  looked  at 
him  with  a  sort  of  intention  in  her  eyes,  which 
helped  him.  He  advanced  to  put  out  his  hand 
silently;  and  when  she  had  placed  hers  within 
it,  she  said  what  her  mind  had  been  labouring 
with,  — 

"  You  have  been  very  good  to  me.  I  have  de- 
served nothing.  I  will  try  —  try  to  live.  I  shall 
think  of  you.  What  good  have  I  been?  Only 
harm.  Don't  let  me  be  harm  to  you.  It  shall  be 
the  better  for  me  —  " 

She  could  not  finish.  It  was  not  that  she  was 
sobbing,  but  that  the  intense  effort  with  which 
she  spoke  made  her  too  tremulous.  The  bur- 
then of  that  difficult  rectitude  towards  him  was 
a  weight  her  frame  tottered  under. 

She  bent  forward  to  kiss  his  cheek,  and  he 
kissed  hers.   Then  they  looked  at  each  other  for 


382  DANIEL  DERONDA 


an  instant  with  clasped  hands,  and  he  turned 
away. 

When  he  was  quite  gone,  her  mother  came  in 
and  found-her  sitting  motionless. 

"  Gwendolen,  dearest,  you  look  very  ill,"  she 
said,  bending  over  her  and  touching  her  cold 
hands. 

"  Yes,  mamma.  But  don't  be  afraid.  I  am 
going  to  live,"  said  Gwendolen,  bursting  out 
hysterically. 

Her  mother  persuaded  her  to  go  to  bed,  and 
watched  by  her.  Through  the  day  and  half  the 
night  she  fell  continually  into  fits  of  shrieking, 
but  cried  in  the  midst  of  them  to  her  mother, 
"  Don't  be  afraid.   I  shall  live.   I  mean  to  live." 

After  all,  she  slept;  and  when  she  waked  in 
the  morning  light,  she  looked  up  fixedly  at  her 
mother  and  said  tenderly:  "  Ah,  poor  mamma! 
You  have  been  sitting  up  with  me.  Don't  be 
unhappy.   I  shall  live.   I  shall  be  better." 


CHAPTER  XIII 


"In  the  checkered  area  of  human  experience  the  seasons  are  all 
mingled  as  in  the  golden  age:  fruit  and  blossom  hang  together;  in 
the  same  moment  the  sickle  is  reaping  and  the  seed  is  sprinkled ;  one 
tends  the  green  cluster,  and  another  treads  the  wine-press.  Nay, 
in  each  of  our  hves  harvest  and  spring-time  are  continually  one,  until 
Death  himself  gathers  us  and  sows  us  anew  in  his  invisible  fields." 


MONG  the  blessings  of  love  there  is 


hardly  one  more  exquisite  than  the  sense 


that  in  uniting  the  beloved  life  to  ours 
we  can  watch  over  its  happiness,  bring  comfort 
where  hardship  was,  and  over  memories  of 
privation  and  suffering  open  the  sweetest  foun- 
tains of  joy.  Deronda's  love  for  Mirah  was 
strongly  imbued  with  that  blessed  protective- 
ness.  Even  with  infantine  feet  she  had  begun 
to  tread  among  thorns;  and  the  first  time  he 
had  beheld  her  face  it  had  seemed  to  him  the 
girlish  image  of  despair. 

But  now  she  was  glowing  like  a  dark-tipped 
yet  delicate  ivory-tinted  flower  in  the  warm  sun- 
light of  content,  thinking  of  any  possible  grief 
as  part  of  that  life  with  Deronda  which  she 
could  call  by  no  other  name  than  good.  And 
he  watched  the  sober  gladness  which  gave  new 
beauty  to  her  movements  and  her  habitual  atti- 
tudes of  repose,  with  a  delight  which  made  him 
say  to  himself  that  it  was  enough  of  personal 
joy  for  him  to  save  her  from  pain.  She  knew 
nothing  of  Hans's  struggle  or  of  Gwendolen's 
pang;  for  after  the  assurance  that  Deronda's 
hidden  love  had  been  for  her,  she  easily  ex- 
plained Gwendolen's  eager  solicitude  about  him 


384  DANIEL  DERONDA 


as  part  of  a  grateful  dependence  on  his  good- 
ness, such  as  she  herself  had  known.  And  all 
Deronda's  words  about  Mrs.  Grandcourt  con- 
firmed that  view  of  their  relation,  though  he 
never  touched  on  it  except  in  the  most  distant 
manner.  Mirah  was  ready  to  believe  that  he 
had  been  a  rescuing  angel  to  many  besides  her- 
self. The  only  wonder  was,  that  she  among 
them  all  was  to  have  the  bliss  of  being  con- 
tinually by  his  side. 

So,  when  the  bridal  veil  was  around  Mirah,  it 
hid  no  doubtful  tremors,  —  only  a  thrill  of  awe 
at  the  acceptance  of  a  great  gift  which  required 
great  uses.  And  the  velvet  canopy  never  cov- 
ered a  more  goodly  bride  and  bridegroom,  to 
whom  their  people  might  more  wisely  wish 
offspring;  more  truthful  lips  never  touched 
the  sacramental  marriage-wine;  the  marriage- 
blessing  never  gathered  stronger  promise  of 
fulfilment  than  in  the  integrity  of  their  mutual 
pledge.  Naturally,  they  were  married  accord- 
ing to  the  Jewish  rite.  And  since  no  religion 
seems  yet  to  have  demanded  that  when  we  make 
a  feast  we  should  invite  only  the  highest  rank 
of  our  acquaintances,  few,  it  is  to  be  hoped, 
will  be  offended  to  learn  that  among  the  guests 
at  Deronda's  little  wedding-feast  was  the  entire 
Cohen  family,  with  the  one  exception  of  the 
baby,  who  carried  on  her  teething  intelligently 
at  home.  How  could  Mordecai  have  borne  that 
those  friends  of  his  adversity  should  have  been 
shut  out  from  rejoicing  in  common  with  him? 

JNIrs.  INIeyrick  so  fully  understood  this  that 
she  had  quite  reconciled  herself  to  meeting  the 
Jewish  pawnbroker,  and  was  there  with  her  three 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  385 


daughters,  —  all  of  them  enjoying  the  conscious- 
ness that  Mirah's  marriage  to  Deronda  crowned 
a  romance  which  would  always  make  a  sweet 
memory  to  them.  For  which  of  them,  mother 
or  girls,  had  not  had  a  generous  part  in  it,  — 
giving  their  best  in  feeling  and  in  act  to  her 
who  needed?  If  Hans  could  have  been  there, 
it  would  have  been  better ;  but  Mab  had  already 
observed  that  men  must  suffer  for  being  so  in- 
convenient: suppose  she,  Kate,  and  Amy  had 
all  fallen  in  love  with  Mr.  Deronda?  —  but 
being  women,  they  were  not  so  ridiculous. 

The  Meyricks  were  awarded  for  conquer- 
ing their  prejudices  by  hearing  a  speech  from 
Mr.  Cohen,  which  had  the  rare  quality  among 
speeches  of  not  being  quite  after  the  usual  pat- 
tern. Jacob  ate  beyond  his  years;  and  con- 
tributed several  small  whinnying  laughs  as  a 
free  accompaniment  of  his  father's  speech,  not 
irreverently,  but  from  a  lively  sense  that  his 
family  was  distinguishing  itself ;  while  Adelaide 
Rebekah,  in  a  new  Sabbath  frock,  maintained 
throughout  a  grave  air  of  responsibility. 

Mordecai's  brilliant  eyes,  sunken  in  their  large 
sockets,  dwelt  on  the  scene  with  the  cherishing 
benignancy  of  a  spirit  already  lifted  into  an 
aloofness  which  nullified  only  selfish  require- 
ments and  left  sympathy  alive.  But  continu- 
ally, after  his  gaze  had  been  travelling  round 
on  the  others,  it  returned  to  dwell  on  Deronda 
with  a  fresh  gleam  of  trusting  affection. 

The  wedding-feast  was  humble,  but  Mirah 
was  not  without  splendid  wedding-gifts.  As 
soon  as  the  betrothal  had  been  known,  there 
were  friends  who  had  entertained  graceful  de- 

VOL.  xrvr — 25 


886  DANIEL  DERONDA 


vices.  Sir  Hugo  and  Lady  Mallinger  had  taken 
trouble  to  provide  a  complete  equipment  for 
Eastern  travel,  as  well  as  a  precious  locket 
containing  an  inscription,  —  "To  the  bride  of 
our  dear  Daniel  Deronda  all  blessings.  —  H.  4 
L.  M."  The  Klesmers  sent  a  perfect  watch, 
also  with  a  pretty  inscription. 

But  something  more  precious  than  gold  and 
gems  came  to  Deronda  from  the  neighbourhood 
of  Diplow  on  the  morning  of  his  marriage.  It 
was  a  letter  containing  these  words :  — 

Do  not  think  of  me  sorrowfully  on  your  wedding-day. 
I  have  remembered  your  words,  —  that  I  may  live  to 
be  one  of  the  best  of  women,  who  make  others  glad 
that  they  were  born.  I  do  not  yet  see  how  that  can  be, 
but  you  know  better  than  I.  If  it  ever  comes  true,  it 
will  be  because  you  helped  me.  I  only  thought  of  my- 
self, and  I  made  you  grieve.  It  hurts  me  now  to  think 
of  your  grief.  You  must  not  grieve  any  more  for  me. 
It  is  better  —  it  shall  be  better  with  me  because  I 
have  known  you.  Gwendolen  Ghandcourt. 

The  preparations  for  the  departure  of  all 
three  to  the  East  began  at  once;  for  Deronda 
could  not  deny  Ezra's  wish  that  they  should  set 
out  on  the  voyage  forthwith,  so  that  he  might 
go  with  them,  instead  of  detaining  them  to  watch 
over  him.  He  had  no  belief  that  Ezra's  life 
would  last  through  the  voyage,  for  there  were 
symptoms  which  seemed  to  show  that  the  last 
stage  of  his  malady  had  set  in.  But  Ezra  him-  r 
self  had  said,  "  Never  mhid  where  I  die,  so  that 
I  am  with  you." 

He  did  not  set  out  with  them.  One  morning 
early  he  said  to  Deronda,  "  Do  not  quit  me  to- 
day. I  shall  die  before  it  is  ended." 


FRUIT  AND  SEED  387 


He  chose  to  be  dressed  and  sit  up  in  his  easy- 
chair  as  usual,  Deronda  and  Mirah  on  each  side 
of  him,  and  for  some  hours  he  was  unusually 
silent,  not  even  making  the  effort  to  speak,  but 
looking  at  them  occasionally  with  eyes  full  of 
some  restful  meaning,  as  if  to  assure  them  that 
while  this  remnant  of  breathing-time  was  diffi- 
cult, he  felt  an  ocean  of  peace  beneath  him. 

It  was  not  till  late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the 
light  was  failing,  that  he  took  a  hand  of  each  in 
his  and  said,  looking  at  Deronda,  "  Death  is  com- 
ing to  me  as  the  divine  kiss  which  is  both  parting 
and  reunion,  —  which  takes  me  from  your  bodily 
eyes  and  gives  me  full  presence  in  your  soul. 
Where  thou  goest,  Daniel,  I  shall  go.  Is  it  not 
begun?  Have  I  not  breathed  my  soul  into  yoii? 
We  shall  Hve  together." 

He  paused,  and  Deronda  waited,  thinking 
that  there  might  be  another  word  for  him.  But 
slowly  and  with  effort  Ezra,  pressing  on  their 
hands,  raised  himself  and  uttered  in  Hebrew  the 
confession  of  the  divine  Unity,  which  for  long 
generations  has  been  on  the  lips  of  the  dying 
Israelite. 

He  sank  back  gently  into  his  chair,  and  did 
not  speak  again.  But  it  was  some  hours  before 
he  had  ceased  to  breathe,  with  Mirah's  and 
Deronda's  arms  around  him. 

"Nothing  is  here  for  tears,  nothing  to  wail 
Or  knock  the  breast ;  no  weakness,  no  contempt, 
Dispraise,  or  blame ;  nothing  but  well  and  fair. 
And  what  may  quiet  us  in  a  death  so  noble." 

THE  END 


The  University  Press,  Cambridge,  U.  S.  A. 


